Scarred Sonatas
by bopofthenight
Summary: A fire at the Opera Populaire leaves Christine Daae permanently disfigured. Unable to accept the fate of her scarred face and her abandoned maestro, she searches for answers beneath the opera house's remains. Erik, assumed dead, prepares to flee back to the circus he once called home. Will Christine be able to follow him into his past, or are some doors better left closed? ...E/C
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

 **Mask**

Christine thought she looked like a doll, dressed so regally with a mask plastered across her face.

She could not tear her gaze from the mirror, the fine, beige leather adorning her features. The fine trace of an edge that only she could see. Deep, dark eyes stripped of their gleam. Waxed over lips, hidden dips from protruding cheekbones.

The night's guests had long since left, but not once did she venture out. She instead stayed in her chambers, knitting, painting, twiddling her thumbs.

She was not afraid, nor fragile.

She was bored.

She undid the clasp tucked under her hair and peeled the mask away from inflamed skin; the air against it a bittercold kiss of relief. Her eyes shut on their own accord, trauma, anxiety, whatever it might be.

This nightly ritual had yet to become easier.

Without giving herself time to hesitate she opened her eyes. Each time caused her heart to sink a little further down in her chest. There were no more tears at the sight after these few fragile months. She was drained of all her tears within the first few weeks. Now all she felt was a numb, dull disappointment.

Her face held little semblance that it once had. Warped, angry scars wrapped across her features, red in some areas, bone-pale in others, like a streaky painting. Her thin, perfect eyebrows no longer grew in, nor did most of her once long, flirtatious lashes. The curve of her hairline was destroyed as singed strands began to sprout back in unevenly. Roots and veins of mottled tissue pinched and cut across her once-soft cheeks, now rough to the touch.

She could still see the fire sometimes, reflecting in the dark pools of her eyes.

The door creaked open and life burst through its threshold behind her fiance. She broke her gaze to the mirror and lowered her head, gently folding the leather mask in her lap before placing it on the vanity. Raoul shucked off his suit jacket, began to unbutton the collar of his shirt. He offered a soft smile in her direction, spotted through the mirror's reflection. "Everyone was asking for you," he told her.

"I do hope you told them I send my warmest regards," she murmured. Her voice did not sound like her own, so soft, so quiet and hesitant.

"Of course." The vicomte shrugged off his button-down, continued to the bathroom to run a bath. In the meantime, Christine popped the lid to her two facial balms. A generous swipe of her index finger from each, then combined, was the routine nighttime concoction. She smoothed it across her wrecked skin, falling into a too-familiar daze as she gently worked it into the bags under her eyes.

She sealed the balms, sliding them away from her. Never once did she break her stare back to herself. Her mottled face shone with medicine, throbbed from the mask. Her eyes remained blank, offering nothing to her, portraying no bit of emotion. There was nothing left to give.

Raoul padded across the floor of their expansive chambers once the bath had started, pausing for a moment before reaching out to his lover. He placed both hands on her shoulders, leaning over her to look at the two of them in the mirror's reflection. His tired, understanding smile made her bristle, but she leaned back into him anyway.

"Let's go to bed, darling. Tomorrow's a new day."

Christine felt something dark and forlorn build deep within her chest, something prodding at the back of her mind. Tomorrow was another day she did not want to face.

She stood, blew out the candle to her vanity. The mask peered tauntingly back at her through nonexistent eyes for the duration of another sleepless night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 **Dream**

Three months.

Ninety-two days.

The doctor assured Christine that the burn scars were healing magnificently. The daily visits for the first twenty-six days had turned into bi-weekly, then weekly, then perhaps once a month, if they were on the right track. The soprano hardly kept track.

"If you continue to apply the balms each day as I instructed, you should be needing more in about a month. I will have my assistant schedule an appointment for your follow-up, when we can get you some more." The doctor clasped his tool-bag and lifted it from the private dining table where the home calls always took place. No maids or servants were allowed in the dining room at any time other than if there was the slight chance that guests would occupy that room. Mainly because Christine had to unmask for her appointments.

"Raoul," Christine placed a hand on her fiance's knee, offering him the most convincing smile she could. "May I please have a moment alone with the doctor?"

Raoul glanced questioningly from her to the doctor, trying to read her intent. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, quite," Christine assured him. "I just have a few questions."

The tone her voice had taken on was enough of a hint. Raoul offered a curt, polite nod before taking his leave, silently shutting the door behind him. At once she turned her attention to the doctor, a frown casting over her features. "Now the honest answers, please."

Christine did not take well to things being "sugar-coated". She would rather know straightforward how bad a situation would be, and her face was no exception. Even if it was a harder pill to swallow. Since their first visit, Christine had demanded honesty from the doctor, if only to put herself at ease. Raoul could live in ignorance as long as he liked, if it helped him. She could not. The doctor and patient came across a silent agreement that at the end of each check-up, he would tell her his honest, medical opinion.

The man sighed, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "The same as my last visit, Mademoiselle. I'm sorry, but there is no hope of a complete recovery. The scars are too deep."

After those words, Christine fell into a numb trance. Other words, like "continue treatment" and "lessen appearance" drifted by ears that refused to hone in. She must have dismissed him at some point, because when she came back down to earth the man was gone, the door left slightly open.

It was dark out by the time Raoul finally joined her in their shared quarters. She was curled up on the chaise with a book opened in her lap, mask secured once more to her face. Completely undisturbed until she saw the blur of a body in front of her. She looked up, greeted by warm, hazel eyes and golden wisps of hair. Another sympathetic smile. "Must you wear that always, love?"

Christine knew what would come next, prepared herself for it. Just as every night if he beat her to it, he reached around underneath her hair and freed the mask from her face. It clung to her skin from sweat and left over balm and she winced as the cold air hit the sensitive skin. Raoul looked down at the colombina-shaped mask with a certain distaste before setting it aside.

"I… talked with the doctor," Raoul started, setting the leather aside. "He believes that the mask might be stunting the recovery."

Christine could not help the pitiful glare that formed on her face, the light scowl that Raoul cringed at. "I spoke with the doctor, too."

"And?"

Christine hesitated before lifting her chin. "He says there is no possible chance for a full recovery."

The vicomte sighed and stood back up, crossing to the bed. "But there is a chance that the scars could fade, even slightly. But the mask, it's suffocating you. The scars can't breathe."

"What's the use?" Christine grumbled. "I went into the fire, I did this to myself. I will be stuck with the mask either way if I ever wish to leave the house again."

Raoul scoffed, crossed the room to his dresser. "Glad you're feeling optimistic today," he muttered. He then froze, halfway through untucking his cravat. He looked over his shoulder to glance to his bride, brows furrowed. "You never told me what you were doing there," he realized.

Christine guessed by his silence that he was expecting some type of answer.

"I left a picture of my father in my dressing room. When I saw the fires, I panicked."

A lie. She had taken the picture home the day before _Don Juan,_ knowing she would quit the opera following the performance.

Still, her fiance was apparently thick enough to buy it. If he were to ever know the truth, he would never look at her the same again. She did not want to upset this delicate balance anymore than it already was.

Christine sat on their balcony, where she had a view of the now-empty lot where the Opera Populaire once stood. She could feel the memories seeping from the rubble, yet to be cleared. Could hear the myriad of infinite melodies that had drifted from the stage. Could see the glittering lights on her face and roses that wilted in forgotten dressing rooms.

She could feel the presence of something calling to her. Pulling at her mind, stringing her along to painful flashbacks. To glimpses of two bodies dangling from a lasso, to a satin white dress and an itchy veil.

To shadows along her dressing rooms walls, calling to her from the corners. To dark waters and twisting fog and distant candlelight. To a man who led her to his lair, where he held her and guided her and hypnotized her through an angelic voice.

To a man, who had completely destroyed her life.

She closed her eyes against the onslaught of pain, grief. She had failed her angel of music. In the end, he burned down with his opera house, dwindling away in the embers and ash. Even through all of the pain he had caused her, her heart broke for him. A man who had been met with nothing but misery and death everywhere he roamed, and she turned out to be just like the rest of them.

It was no wonder, really, that the Phantom turned out the way he did. Christine had been thinking on this since _Don Juan._ He was only shown hatred and animosity his entire life. How could he have any knowledge on how to treat people, when he had nothing but trauma and abuse to draw from?

How could he have known better?

Raoul believed that Christine grieved the face she once had, now lost to a maze of scars. But she couldn't be bothered by that anymore.

Christine grieved the loss of a man, of a friend she once thought she had. A friend who she parted from by breaking his heart. By leaving him to die.

An image, foggy and unclear, drifted behind her eyelids. Of the Phantom, unmasked and nodding her along, pleading with her through dark eyes. _I'm alright,_ it seemed to say, even as a bloodthirsty mob closed in on him. _Go on, I'll be alright._

"Oh, Maestro," she whispered to herself, a mere breath that skated from her lips. A single tear traced along the ribbed plane of her cheek.

" _Christine…"_

The soprano's head snapped up, eyes wide and flooding at the familiar sweet, soothing voice. The air rushed from her lungs, left her gaping.

 _It cannot be…_

"Christine?"

She quickly looked over her shoulder, where Raoul stood by the open balcony door with an outstretched hand. A mirror image of when he led her out of the cellars of the Populaire.

 _Of course. You fool._

"Come to bed, my love."

She blinked away the moisture in her eyes, took her soon-to-be-husband's hand, and joined him.

" _What's this?"_

 _The Phantom glanced up from his papers, scrawled carelessly across his music stand. Christine toyed with the music-box monkey, smoothing down its velvet vest. She donned her white robe, frills tossed behind her as she stretched out on the gondola. Her hair fell down over her shoulders in a downy, dark cascade. The singer could feel her mentor's stare as he took in every detail of her._

" _It's an old friend of mine."_

 _Christine looked up with a puzzled smile. "Where is it from?" Her attention returned to the ornate monkey; she traced the carved hair atop its head with her nail._

" _Persia," he answered. "A gift from a policeman."_

" _What is its purpose?"_

 _The Phantom placed his quill back in the ink, drifted over to kneel beside Christine and his paper-mache friend. He wound the knob on the back of its box. The monkey began the slow, rhythmic clapping of its symbols, playing a simple and soft tune._

 _Christine giggled, watching contently. The composer couldn't take his eyes off of her, drank in the easy joy and peace she radiated. "Does he have a name?"_

 _Christine had meant it as a joke, but he answered honestly, "it's not a name a lady should hear."_

 _The young woman was now intrigued. "I promise I can handle it."_

 _The man hesitated, before simply stating, "Jackass. That's his name."_

 _Christine burst into a dainty fit of giggles, covering her mouth at the obscenity. She caught sight of his own small smile, a tiny hint from what she could see of his lips._

 _Their eyes met, and something warm and new and exciting began to bloom in the singer's chest. She grinned, tilting her head. "You're quite the mystery, maestro."_

" _Better kept that way."_

Christine blinked awake, staring at the wall ahead of her. The room was still dark, bathed in that dark midnight glow. Raoul had an arm draped over her waist, his head nuzzled into the crook of her neck. His breathing was deep, steady.

The woman thought over the dream, a memory she had almost forgotten about. The two weeks she had spent with the Phantom after _Hannibal_ had become a trance-like haze in her mind, only certain clips and stolen glances and snippets of conversation reserved. She had forgotten about the little music box. Jackass, as he had called it.

Her former angel had come to her in dreams a number of times since the fire. She supposed that he now was a literal angel of hers, only he more haunted than guided her. Unable to remember the few good memories they had shared, but could perfectly recall all the bad.

She eased herself out of her lover's arms, careful not to stir him. She padded over to her desk, lit a small candle, and took out her hidden journal. She found the next empty page and copied down the dream to her best ability.

If she could not have the good memories clear in her mind, at least she could keep the dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: hey guys ! this seems to finally be getting a little bit of attention. Welcome aboard to my shitshow lmao. Hope you enjoy your stay :)**

 **...**

 **Chapter 3: Burn**

Christine could recall the night of the fire with perfect, precise detail. No matter how much she tried to will it away.

She had been sheltered in Madame Giry's flat after the tragedy of _Don Juan,_ trusting no one, nothing. She was in no state that she wanted Raoul seeing. She would only allow the Giry's to watch her heal from the events.

She had witnessed a man murder two people in cold blood out of some psychotic desperation for her love and affection. She had been kidnapped, threatened and made to be wed against her will. Made to choose between her lover's life or her freedom. She believed that she despised the man with every inch of her soul, but even as she left that horrid night she knew she was lying to herself. He _deserved_ her hatred. But she could not offer it.

She left her maestro, the tragic man who inspired her voice, to be torn to shreds by an angry mob. Even with how furious and scarred she was because of him, she could not bear the fact that she left him to be destroyed, mauled.

No one deserved a life like the one he had led. But in the end, she had played a role in his demise. It tortured her.

Madame Giry had informed her later that night that the mob died down shortly after they reached the Phantom's lair; there was no one left to be found. No life was claimed that night. Christine briefly felt like she could breathe again.

Until the fire, three days later.

A group of performers and patrons had met three nights after _Don Juan_ , drowned their grief and anger in cheap booze at any bar that would seat them. In their drunken stupor, they stumbled to the sleeping Populaire building, coated it in fuel, and struck a match. Curtains and carpets erupted in bright, furious flames, that began to eat through the walls, to the flys, to the dressing rooms all the way in the back of the massive hall. If they could not kill the Phantom of the Opera, they would take away his dwelling to keep him from ever returning.

At the first glance of flames a few blocks over, Christine knew. Something told her, _spoke to her._ Her heart stopped and she couldn't breathe, all she could do was sprint through the winding streets of Paris and pray to God she made it before it was too late.

By the time she arrived, a crowd had begun to gather. She weaved past the bystanders watching in horror, pushed through the wall of firemen that were trying to contain the inferno. At some point tears had begun to streak from her eyes, cries began to escape her throat as she ran head-first into the fires.

The woman did her best to shield herself, holding her hands over her face and throat. She held her breath for as long as she could, but began to gasp, lungs shuddering for air. She coughed, she gagged and hacked, but continued on.

She needed to find him.

She needed to save him.

Her tormented angel. Her muse. Her teacher. She couldn't let him die.

Remembering the closest shortcut to the underground tunnels, she burst through the theatre's doors in hopes of reaching the orchestra pit. There was a hidden latch under the low instruments area, just as he had shown her.

The plush, velvet seats of the theatre were a perfect conductor for the hell fire that had ripped through the building. She could not even make out where the orchestra pit was amidst the chaos, the ruin, the dizzying heat. Still, she searched on, dodging falling debris and bursts of fire.

She could not stand by and watch as her maestro died. Never again. Despite every bit of better judgement telling her to _turn around, it's too dangerous, you could die,_ she trudged on.

The singer reached a point in the aisle where fragments of the ceiling had crashed down; she tripped and fell into the railing for the pit. A tiny glimmer of hope sparked in her core at her discovery, the thought of just _maybe, maybe I can do this._

In the second she spared for that relief, disaster struck.

All Christine heard was a deafening creak, and the floor gave out beneath her.

The last thing the soprano could recall was falling, into a dark, deep and dusty cavern. And the strangely settling thought of _finally._

When she came to, she was strapped down to a hospital cot, doctors poking and prodding at her destroyed face. Her entire body ached, felt bent and shattered. But her head, her _head._

She wailed, purely animalistic in pain and horror and despair. Her face, each inch, each millimeter felt like it was scorched by the fires of Hell itself, nerves screaming and mind scrambling for any answer in the midst of a deep, instinctual panic.

At the time, she fully believed that she was dying. It was the only explanation.

One doctor, all-too calm in his nature, held a cap over her mouth and she was once again pulled into the deep pull of sedation.

The doctors lifted the sedatives after two days. When she came to, she could not see. Her eyes were covered by layer after layer of gauze and cloth. Her face still stung, as if millions of needles were lodged in each and every pore. She could barely breathe through the tiny slit in the gauze they left for her nose and mouth. Every minute movement, even _thinking_ was a shot of unbearable pain.

"Christine, my love. I'm here."

A firm, warm hand slid its way into hers and offered a gentle squeeze.

"What happened?" she had asked.

There was a long, pregnant pause from Raoul before he began to speak, words caught in his throat, struggling to escape.

"The firemen said they found you collapsed into the storage pit of the Populaire. They claimed you ran in like a madman. Ignored their orders, disappeared into the flames." He choked, having to clear his throat. "They said debris had fallen over you and protected you from the worst of the flames. But…"

"But what?"

Dread began to pool in the woman's belly. She already knew what Raoul was about to say. She just prayed that somehow, it was not true.

"The… the debris was smoldering, and it… it burned you, Christine. Across your chest and your arms, and - and your face."

The first two weeks passed in a blur of complete dissociation. At some point the bandages had been removed. At some point, Christine screamed in horror at the first sight of her disfigurement, and smashed a handheld mirror against the wall. Somewhere along the way Raoul had moved her and all of her belongings into his house, insisting that she "needed to be home". What she could not recall was the agreement that the Chagny residence was her home. The Giry's visited almost every single day, reading to her the news and relaying wishes for a speedy recovery from the opera company.

Raoul had found the best of the best doctors for treating skin wounds and burn trauma, paying more money than morally necessary. Christine knew from the moment she saw the angry blisters and streaks of fire across her face that no amount of appointments or lotions could heal what had been done.

What she had done to herself.

Of course, Raoul readily listened to each instruction on how to care for the burns to ensure the least amount of scarring possible. He bought the creams, he applied them to her while she recovered. He brought her on brief strolls through the garden to give her sunlight and fresh air. He brought meals to her bed on a silver tray and turned away gossiping patrons. He held her and kissed her while she wept, for days and days until her eyes burned and her throat was numb.

She knew how lucky she was, to find a man as caring and considerate as the vicomte. She appreciated and loved him for every bit of it.

But some part of her soul still reached out to the smoldering decays of the opera house, desperate to find answers. And she hated herself for it.

She remembered the conversation involving a mask as vividly as she remembered the fire.

Raoul had perched beside her leg on their bed, placed a hand lovingly on her knee.

"I spoke with the doctor. He believes the skin has healed enough if you wish to begin looking at… cosmetic aspects."

Christine looked up instantly, slowly setting her book down.

"What does that mean?"

Raoul sighed, pursed his lips. "My dear, no matter how much we care to your injuries, there will still be scarring. This cannot be avoided."

"And what of my scarring?" She could not help the edge that her voice had taken on; she leaned up, wincing at the pain in her ribcage.

"I think we should look at prosthetic masks."

The words hit her like a bullet. She froze, slowly leaning back into her pillows.

 _A mask._

"I know it's not ideal, but it would be good for when we go out in the city, or have guests over."

"What in God's name makes you think I want to wear a mask ever again in my life?" she hissed, glaring at her fiance, who froze with wide eyes.

An awkward beat passed, of Raoul trying to read Christine's expression, and of Christine fighting back the urge to scream and run and break something over his pretty little head.

"Christine," Raoul said lowly. He took one of her hands in his own, offering a firm, but comforting squeeze. "You've seen what happens to people with… deformities. I only want what's best for you."

The worst of it all is that she believed him. So she agreed.

Three days later, the finest craftsman in all of Paris arrived, took precise measurements of each curve and rise and slope of her ruined face, and tested color swatches to her complexion. She spoke not a single word. Just stared forward, tears silently falling down her face.

The craftsman returned two weeks later with three skin tone masks, one made of leather, one made of a soft clay, and the last a tough rubber. At a quick, unknowing glance, Christine would be a normal, beautiful woman on the streets. She had never been in a fire, diving headfirst into her death to save a fallen friend.

Her life had not been derailed entirely over the course of a few agonizing weeks.

Everything was fine.

She refused to put on the mask for the first time with anyone watching. Given her history with the subject, she knew this was a type of pain that no one would quite understand. She eased herself over to her vanity, ignoring the intense stare she reflected back to herself. Ignored the inflamed skin and new patterns of scar tissue that had begun to bloom under her eyes and across her cheeks and forehead. She pulled the leather mask over her scars, fitting it snugly and perfectly aligning it to cover every sign of trauma and damage. It fit perfectly across her face; a dab of powder along the edges and one would have a hard time seeing the difference unless they were looking for it.

For a fleeting moment, she was normal once again. She could have a normal life, go on walks outside of the isolated garden. She could sing on a lighted stage again. She could live again.

The mask covered everything wrong with her.

It was at this moment when the singer doubled over and began to weep.

She flung the mask off, burying her head into her hands as she sobbed. Was this what life was like for her poor maestro? She had had a blissful twenty-two years of normalcy before she was thrown into the chaotic mess of rumors and prayers and avoidance and stares. Her Phantom had known nothing but that same chaos for his entire life.

And she was one of the fools who so eagerly ripped away the one piece of security he had.

Raoul burst through the doors at the first signal of distress; she barely had five minutes to herself to simply cry. To be alone with her memories and regrets. He scooped her up in his sturdy arms, held her and hid her away in his embrace.

When the vicomte asked her what was wrong, she simply said she was upset about the mask.

How could he ever understand the truth?


	4. Chapter 4

(A/N: Sorry it took so long to update ! And don't worry, Erik's coming.)

 **Chapter 4**

 **Persian**

Christine watched with apprehension as a man approached the front door of the house, removing a curious hat from atop a dark head. She wrung her fingers in her lap, glancing to Raoul. The vicomte was sat at his desk, hunched over a stack of papers.

"Are you expecting a guest, dear?"

Her fiance looked over his shoulder, brows furrowed and frowning. "Not that I can recall."

"Perhaps Philippe?"

Raoul shook his head. "He would have informed me. Why, is someone here?"

The former singer pointed to the man through the window. He was now stood patiently at the door, tapping a foot. She heard a servant crack open the door, could hear faint murmurs from a deep voice with an unusual accent. Raoul glanced shiftily to Christine before quickly going downstairs.

Christine straightened her mask with a short hiss of discomfort before peering around the bend of the bedroom door. She could see a hint of the grand staircase, could hear the new, foreign voice clearer. It was deep, rich, and the furthest from French imaginable.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but my wife is not taking any visitors at this time."

Something struck Christine wrong at the word Raoul used to describe her. Wife, yet they were not yet married. She bit her tongue nonetheless, intrigued more by the conversation.

"Please, sir, it's of the utmost urgency." The voice paused, and a stretched shadow on the staircase shifted; Christine knew in that instant she was caught.

"It's about her Angel of Music."

The woman gasped as a piece of this new puzzle fell into place.

Of course he doesn't sound French.

He's Persian.

She purposefully slammed the bedroom door behind her as she crossed the mezzanine, head bowed. Her locks, what remained of them after the fire, fell to hide her face and her ravaged hairline. "I'm fine to take visitors, Raoul," she called down. She gave herself no time to second-guess herself as she began to descend the stairs.

She glanced upward through her hair to see her bewildered fiance, stuttering to find words. In the threshold stood a tall, dark man, who offered a sincere and calming smile.

"You may go, dear. I should prefer to speak alone with our guest."

Too stunned to protest, he slowly backed up, retreating to a back hall.

When she was certain the two of them were out of earshot, she lifted her head enough to be polite. She offered an unconvincing smile, which quickly faded. The man bowed his head and took one of Christine's hands gingerly in his own, worn rough with callouses. He placed a scruffy kiss to her knuckles. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, mademoiselle." He looked around, unsure. Something in his demeanor told the woman that his visit would not be of the merry kind; there was something he meant to tell her. "May I come inside?" he asked.

Christine studied his features for a moment, assessing, before curtly nodding. The man offered another smile and a short thank you.

As the soprano led the stranger to an unoccupied sitting room, she waved off curious and concerned maids left and right, offering no words. Her strides were sure and steady for the first time in months. Whatever this man offered, she knew she had been waiting, yearning to hear.

The two took a seat on a long, velvet sofa. He placed his dark hat - she believed it was called a "fez" - on his lap, smoothed down its tassel. He hastily smoothed back loose black curls that had fallen into his face. Golden sunlight poured in from a bay window behind her to cast on the man, whose deep skin glew like dull copper. He had a full beard, spotted with gray around the corners of full, hidden lips. High cheekbones and dark, angled brows framed the most gorgeous eyes Christine might have ever seen. They seemed to shine, like bright pools of honey, in the gentle light.

The man was breathtaking.

"I take it you're the Persian," Christine said.

"I...did not know that he spoke of me." The Persian's thick accent wove the words like an exquisite spinning wheel.

"Enough to know that you existed, that you were still alive," she explained.

The Persian nodded, appearing a bit shocked that her Phantom had ever even acknowledged his existence. "Well, my name is Monsieur Khan," he said. "But you may call me Daroga, if you wish. Many prefer to."

"And what might Daroga mean?"

"Police, in Persian."

Another puzzle piece slotted into place, Christine's eyes widened. "You gave him the music box," she breathed.

The Daroga paused, seemingly confused, before it dawned on him. "Yes, many years ago." He spoke of it as if there was little to no significance of it to him, despite it being her mentor's most prized possession. Who exactly was this man to him?

An awkward spell of silence fell between the two of them. The Daroga looked curiously around the room, pursing his lips. The soprano cleared her throat, reining him back in. "You said you had news about my… angel?" she near-whispered. She worried that Raoul waited around a corner, listening to their every word.

"Yes," he quickly assured her. He clasped his hands in front of him, preparing his statement. "I… I have visited Erik -"

"Erik?" Christine asked, her voice nearly breaking.

The Daroga's thick eyebrows furrowed. "Yes, that's his name."

Erik. So simple, yet so unexpected. What exactly was she hoping for?

Erik.

The Persian waited a moment before slowly continuing. "I have visited Erik several times in the past few weeks -"

"He's alive?!" She blurted out. Christine was normally much more reserved and polite. But she couldn't contain herself. Her Phantom, he was alive… !

"Yes, he survived the fire," The man pressed on. "But I have news."

Christine promised to quit her interrupting.

"I have been visiting him almost every day in the Populaire undergrounds to help him, to feed him, nurse him back to health. You see, he was gravely injured in the fire. He almost did not make it out alive."

A tear fell from Christine's eyes, unbeknownst to her.

"He is not well, and refuses my help. I have tried to aid him, to coax him out of the undergrounds, but he will not budge. And, he - he gave me orders, the day of the fire. A dying wish to pass on to you."

Christine felt like she could hardly breathe. "Go on."

The Persian took a steadying breath.

"Erik's last wish on this Earth is to see you, one more time."

The room fell deathly still; the woman slumped, anxiety filling her chest.

"I… I don't-"

Monsieur Khan held up a palm to brace for any backlash, quickly added more. "I explained to him that you may not want to see him again, which, from what he's told me, would not be surprising. Nor would I blame you."

"No," Christine said, shaking her head. "No, I just don't know what to say. It's been so long."

The older man sighed, took a moment to simply pass a look to her of understanding, sympathy. Something about his slow and gentle movements, his steady, soft stare, eased Christine. "Mademoiselle, I understand," he said. He took one of her hands in his own rough, worn ones. "But I believe that Erik should make a full recovery if you agree to see him once more. He's dying now, yes, but of his own doing, simply from heartbreak."

The thought alone of Erik slowly dying was enough to make the woman shudder. Alone, in the dark, burnt rubble, starving himself. She dipped her head, staring blankly at their hands.

"Erik is a genius," The Daroga continued, voice softening. "He is a very complex and unique man who has lived through many tragedies. If given the chance, shown the kindness, I truly do believe he is capable of wonderful things." He gave Christine's hand a small squeeze, eyes turning glassy. Quickly, he blinked it away and cleared his throat. "I do not want to see our friend die, not when he has so much more to offer."

Christine nearly choked. "He's not my friend," she whispered.

The Daroga offered a small smile. "I know. Truthfully, I find myself questioning if he's mine, too." He stood, groaning quietly as old joints stretched out. "I shall leave you to think about it," he said. "Erik's well being is no one's responsibility but his. You may choose to never see him again, and it will be without any judgement. But please, consider what I have told you."

The young woman nodded curtly, sniffling.

She showed the unexpected guest to the door, thanked him for his visit and words, no matter how painful it had been for her. He parted with a short nod.

"Should we meet again, I hope that it is under better circumstances," The Daroga said. With that, he fixed his hat and left.

"Who was that earlier?"

The two were laying in bed later that night, Raoul with a book, Christine with her knitting. The vicomte put the book down in his lap and glanced sidelong at her.

"An officer that the Phantom had once known," Christine said.

"What did he want?"

Christine slipped a move and sucked her teeth. "He simply wanted to know if he had ever made contact with me after the fire."

Raoul sat up, book slapping shut. "They never found him?"

"I suppose not."

The young man quieted, studying his lover. "How… do you feel about that? Are you alright?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," she muttered.

"Well now I would," Raoul quipped. He pivoted to face Christine better, lowering her knitting needles. "Christine, my love, I feel like we haven't talked or done anything with each other since the fire. You haven't been the same."

"In case you haven't noticed, circumstances in our life changed after the fire." Annoyance was slowly turning to anger, untapped and festering for three months.

"Like what?" He asked. "Because I can't place what you mean."

"Like you deciding I was to move in with you. You deciding that I should continue treatment-"

"Both of those things were for your own good," Raoul tried to reason.

"According to you!" She snapped. She glared at him head on, scars angry and bright in the light, as if mocking him. Her knitting was forgotten, fell on the floor.

Hurt and confusion flashed across Raoul's features. "What do you mean?"

Christine sighed, realizing she dug her own grave.

May as well lay in it.

"I never agreed to move in with you," she said, lowering her voice in shame. "I knew it would come eventually, but I wanted time to heal. It was all so sudden and it's difficult. In ways you could never understand."

"How could I not understand?" he asked, desperately confused. "I'm your fiance!"

"Because you don't look like this!" She spat, gesturing wildly to her deformed face. "You chose what you thought was best for me without consulting me but you could never understand what I needed. Because you will never face the problems that I am stuck with forever!"

Raoul said nothing for a long, terrible spell of silence. He searched her eyes, wild and fierce and glaring him down. Tears fell from her eyes, unchecked.

"I'm, I'm so sorry," He whispered.

Christine was not sure what she was expecting. For him to defend himself, offer an explanation, something.

Not an apology.

A terrible guilt sunk into her. "No," she said, wiping at her face. "I'm sorry. I, I shouldn't have been so violent about it. Today has just been… a lot to process."

Raoul nodded, clearing his throat. "From now on, I promise you, everything will be done as you wish. Nothing else. If you wish to stop treatment, that's fine. If - if you even wish to move out, that's fine, too."

Christine felt heat pool in her eyes, her lip quiver as a pain filled her heart. She shook her head, covering her tender face as she began to whimper. "It's all gone wrong," she cried. Nothing was supposed to go this way.

Her life was falling apart.

"Hey, hey now," Raoul cooed, clearing the hair from her eyes with careful fingers. One hand beneath her chin lifted her face to eye level, the other coaxed her hands from her face. She stared hopelessly to him, hoping for answers from anywhere, to anything.

He cupped her cheek, running a thumb lovingly across a ridge of scar tissue. "Things have gone a bit wrong," he admitted. "But it's nothing that we cannot fix. Together." He leaned in close, pressing a soft, slow kiss to her lips. She sighed into it, her last few tears slipping free as she closed her eyes.

She was so tired.

That night, long after Raoul had fallen asleep, Christine eased out of bed once again, lit a candle at her vanity. But she didn't have anything new to write. She just wanted to read.

She skimmed through the pages she had filled with dreams, of memories. Of her angel - or Erik, she supposed - teaching her fundamental scales. Showing her his underground home. Sharing a cautious meal on the edge of the lake. Showing her that damned music box.

As she read, remembered a few more, she began to cry silently. Scrawled them down lazily.

She couldn't stop thinking about him. Erik, her fallen friend. Alone in the cold underneath the ruins of the opera house. Slowly dying of his own accord. Was he awake, as she was? Hoping she would come to see him just once more?

At some point during that long, sleepless night, and after thinking over her conversation with the Persian, she made her choice. It was time to see her maestro again, and to meet Erik truly for the first time.

Who the visit would really help out of the two of them, she was not sure.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 **Reunion**

She couldn't sleep.

Christine looked up from her hunch over the secret journal to see that the shadows of nighttime were slowly giving way to the dull, navy wisps of dawn. She thanked the Heavens that Raoul was a deep sleeper as she shuffled around in her dresser for her day's attire. She eased over to the en suite bathroom, mask and hair pins clasped tightly in her free hand.

The dress she chose was simple and dark, the color of deep wine. The last thing she wanted today was to be spotted sneaking into the ruins of the fire she dove into a few months ago. She pinched her hair forward with a full row of pins to hide her hairline, fastening a black bonnet tightly around the crown of her head.

For her visit she opted for her rubber mask, finding that it blended easiest to her natural skin. But as she lifted it to her face, she hesitated. As she stared into the reflection of the mirror, she somehow felt like she was seeing herself truly, for the first time.

She was about to step off of the De Chagny property for the first time in three months. And even though she still hid her face, even though she was terrified, she felt fucking liberated.

She took extra precaution applying her mask, making sure each corner and seam lined up perfectly. A quick dust of powder over the edges and she was able to appear normal under the shadow of her bonnet.

She grabbed her clutch, eased the bedroom door shut with the tiniest click, and scurried out of the house, wary of any lingering servants. Springtime air bit at her tender face as she opened the door, rustling her brown locks. She winced at the unfamiliar feeling, but eagerly moved forward.

The entire walk she kept her head down and her shoulders pinched forward. Thankfully, the trek was short enough that she could avoid calling for a carriage at four in the morning. The streets were fairly empty given the hour, but still, the closer and closer she got to the site of the fire, the more anxiety seemed to claw at her ribcage. It dawned on her as she turned a corner and was greeted by the cluttered, dead lot: she wasn't scared of stepping out into the world, she was scared of what she was going to find.

The young soprano could remember the first time she saw the Opera Populaire. Her father had saved up enough earnings to purchase two tickets to a performance, what of she couldn't recall. She could not have been older than ten or eleven. She remembered hopping out of the carriage with her father's help, awestruck at the gigantic structure she was greeted with. The front was flooded with Parisians chattering and filing in, all feathers and jewels and powder. Horses clopped and neighed as they dropped off patrons in front of the doors. The angels on the corners of the roof gleamed as if the stars shone only for them.

Now all of the gleam, the stars and the crowds and the life of the Populaire was blown away, like the ash in the wind. Ghosts of masquerades danced along the corners of Christine's mind. The mind-numbing applause after a successful night rang in her ears.

But before her now was only the charred skeleton of that magnificent place, shattered concrete blocks and shards of glass littered amongst the looming fog of dust and ash. The roses that once were thrown at her feet were now gone, burnt and crumbling rubble replacing them.

Christine's heart thudded heavily in her chest as she navigated the debris. She spotted a small crevice that she could squeeze through that would lead, hopefully, to the main structure that loomed ahead like a great, dead shadow. A few times she stumbled, scraping her hands while catching herself. She huffed and continued on, forgetting about her ruined skirts.

When she came across what had once been the main theatre, her heart skipped and she gasped. In the center of the enormous hall, amongst the scattered remains of seats, was the chandelier. The weight of it tore a gaping hole out of the ceiling; eerie, pale light poured into the room like a break in the wall of a cave.

As she walked by the shattered skeleton, lured into something of a trance, she let her fingertips ghost along the edges of the polished brass. "How ironic," she whispered. Even that seemed to echo in the stagnant air around her.

Not wanting to get anywhere near the scene of her accident, she wove through the rows of trashed seats to the side entrance of the stage, then through shadowy remains to where she knew her old dressing room to be. There was no more door - hell, there almost were no more walls. But still, what remained was enough to cause her to choke up.

Soft, blush-toned wallpaper printed with daisies and cherubs was now charred black and peeling off of the wood beneath it. The few seats she had were now discarded and tossed about, blackened. Her wardrobe was barely standing, the clothes inside ripped and reduced to ash. Each drawer in her small little vanity was flung open and gutted, most likely by greedy looters that came after the building was put out.

Christine closed her eyes against the onslaught of pain, the endless memories she had made in this room. Showing her friends in the corps de ballet each corner, having them over late to tell scary stories. Sitting at her vanity in disbelief as she began to read letters from new fans after her debut. Her angel, coming to her once the rest of the building slept, whispering and easing her sorrows as he drew out the most beautiful sounds from her.

She sniffed, cleared her eyes. It was too much of a mess to cry with the mask on.

Instead, she focused her attention on the mirror on the far wall. Somehow, it remained unbroken, as if a sign that she was meant to find it, pass through it once more. She could see the lingering silhouette of her figure in the shadows of the dust-covered surface. Took a steadying breath.

Miraculously she was able to find a lantern that had not been destroyed by the destruction. She retrieved her matchbook from her clutch and lit the lantern, casting a faint, golden light across the jagged shadows in her old chambers. She crossed to the mirror, took a moment to study it.

How did he make this work?

She set the light down on the dirtied floor and began to knock , like a fool, on the surface of the glass. Unsatisfied with her investigation - what was she even looking for? - she opted instead to feel around the edges of the frame. Her fingers skidded across the sides without hiccup; she dug her nails in, tried to pry it off with a strained groan, and gave up almost right away.

She huffed, and on the tips of her toes, checked the top of the frame for anything.

Her finger caught on a lip, no, a handle. She almost laughed to herself, not believing her luck - and her stupidity for never noticing it before. She picked up the lantern, readied herself, and shifted the handle towards her. She couldn't help but yelp from freight when the mirror suddenly spun on invisible hinges and spat her out on the other end.

Christine tripped, steadied herself, and looked around in complete bewilderment. From what she could see through the faulty light of the swinging lantern, she had uncovered a tunnel. Pitch black, narrow, and painted with cobwebs. But a tunnel.

She struck matches now and then as she descended to light dusty sconces high on the walls, leaving a poorly-lit bread trail behind her. The stone steps were steep and uneven; she had to feel with her boot each time before putting her foot down.

The steps began to wind downward, further and further, before they finally bottomed out into a long hallway. Christine willed away the creeping fear in the back of her mind at the waiting black ahead of her. She moved on.

At the end of the hall, there it was. The gondola. It ebbed against the edge of the bay gently in the quiet ripple.

Not so long ago she was curled up at the very edge of that same boat, sobbing silently as Raoul paddled them away from Erik's lair.

The former singer braced herself against the thought and climbed in with a clumsy sway. The motion to steer and paddle was simple enough; after a few tries, she was on her way.

It occurred to her halfway down the watery corridor that she had no idea where she was going.

The singer came to a fork in the dark river, and defeated, she sat down. She sighed, racking her brain for any memory of the way Erik had taken.

As she was about to accept defeat, she heard it.

A violin.

The sound was faint and impossibly distant, so much that Christine wondered for a moment if she was just hearing things. But nonetheless, there it was again. Not full playing, but a slow, melodic pluck of the strings.

Filled with a new determination, she began to row towards the direction of the violin. The initial shock and relief that the Phantom was alive wore off at some point in the night; anger had returned. Anger that had been fueled by knowing what three months of proper romantic bliss was like. As well as the six months after Il Muto, before he returned to terrorize and ruin Christine's life.

Anger that he had kidnapped her, tried to force her into marriage. Then had the audacity to disappear.

Yes, she knew that he was not stable and terrified of abandonment or rejection. Yes, she still felt horrible after how things had ended between them, with that last heartbreaking gaze from him. But her anger was justified. She could barely process the contradictions she felt in her mind, let alone even picture him without being wrecked with panic. How the hell was she supposed to talk to him?

All she knew for certain was that whatever waited for her at the end of the water, she needed to see.

The gondola rounded a thin corner and she was greeted by… nothing.

She lifted the lantern and squinted, peering around at the dark ruins. That's when it hit her: this wasn't nothing, it was all that was left.

Elegant candelabras rose from beneath the dark water of the lake, lining the cavern's rock walls, but the candles were long since melted, pearly wax dripping down their stems before dissolving away. About fifty feet out was a shore, and it all came crashing back to her. The organ, the throne, the wardrobe, the music box.

But it was all destroyed.

God, what did they do?

What remained of Erik's throne was torn apart and thrown across the shore in disarray. The short dock where he would tie up his boat was ripped apart and burned, if the black stumps rising out of the shore were any indication. The structural walls that supported the small living quarters behind the organ were ravaged, caved in. And the organ, the beautiful, monstrous organ… its long, shining pipes were now bent, dirtied, or ripped away. The keys were kicked in, all of the papers on the stand burnt to a fine pile of ashes. That sight alone was nearly enough to make the girl cry.

Banners and thick curtains of silk and velvet that once lined the ceiling now cascaded down in charred piles. But behind one, she noticed, was a very, very dim light. It blinked and wavered, weak and unstable like one solitary candle. And from that tiny light, she could make out a human's silhouette, sat against the wall with its head bowed. Long, thin legs poked out from behind the drape.

The head of the shadow lifted suddenly and the rhythmic plucking of the violin stopped dead in its tracks.

It seemed that every emotion Christine had ever experienced was catapulted right at her. Any preparation she made was gone.

"Who's there?"

The girl's heart stopped. Her mouth opened and closed, searching for words that refused to come to her.

There was a raspy sigh, before the deep voice spoke once more. It sounded so tired. "If you're here to steal, there's nothing more to loot. Unless you care for little toy monkeys or oriental rugs."

Christine still could not speak. She simple savored the sound of his voice, even if it was barely recognizable.

She heard the man grumble before she saw his head loll back. "Nadir, if that's you, you can leave. I've told you-"

"Maestro."

The silhouette froze and the air seemed to run cold. She could hear him stammer, almost silently. Heard the hollow thud of the violin slipping from his lap. She watched helplessly as bony pale fingers wrapped around the curtain and slowly pulled it back. The hand trembled.

Candlelight painted Erik's disfigured half menacingly, but each inch of his face read of pure shock and disbelief.

"Christine?"

The woman in question did her best to steel over, lifting her chin and hoping that her bonnet hid her extra accessory. "Hello, Erik."

He shuddered and recoiled at the sound of his own name, shock giving way to bewilderment. "H-How-"

"The Persian paid me a visit."

The man's head dipped down and he sighed. He peered to her out of the corner of his eye, mouth cracking open as if to speak, but he was too scared to. Slowly he lifted his head again, studied her with such wonder in his eyes. He began to wonder if he was hallucinating. They did say that was a final stage in death.

Erik watched helplessly as Christine rowed over to the side of the shore, lifted her skirts, and stepped out onto the concrete landing. She left the lantern on the boat.

Christine trusted this distance and no more. It was far enough to hopefully obscure her mentor's view of her face, but close enough that she could fully see him. Look at him. Alive.

But yes, dying. The Daroga had not exaggerated.

What little meat might have been on the Phantom's bones at some point was now certainly gone, eaten away by his system out of desperation for food. He was sickeningly skeletal; anyone could easily break in and break him over their knee. One arm was bent wrong, a makeshift stint snapped out of place. He wore only his dirtied trousers and white shirtsleeves, collar popped open to reveal sickly pale skin, covered in sweat. His shirt was caked in dried blood. His sparse blond hair was matted to his warped scalp with grease and dirt. Malnutrition only made his deformity appear more ghastly; sharp cheekbones cut his face on either side and his jaw jutted out unnaturally. He had a large, crusted gash over the eye on his bad side, and his thick lips were split open.

"You've looked better," she stated simply. She tried to play off her worry, but the sight of him made her hands tremble, made her heart heavy.

"What are you doing here?" he breathed.

"I needed to know if what he said is true," she said. "That you're dying."

"You're here."

Christine's cheeks heated under the mask at the pure wonder and love in his voice. Anxiety rippled through her.

After a long, pregnant moment of him simply admiring her presence, Erik's eyes narrowed and he lifted his head. His one eyebrow furrowed as he weakly nodded to her. "What's that?" He could barely lift his head, yet he somehow was still observant enough to notice.

Christine's face beneath the rubber mask burned at the mention, as if aware. "How did you do it?" she implored. "How did you survive?"

"What's that on your face?" he persisted. Something between horror and confusion flashed through his dead eyes.

The woman lowered her head just enough, cursing her hat and her teacher's good eye. "Tell me how you did it or I will leave."

Erik weakly shook his head to clear the fog. "I'm sorry," he whispered. He breathed out and looked away, to the violin that he had dropped. "I hid," he said simply. "I have a secret chamber-" he coughed violently, barely raising his hand in time. "... beneath the lake."

Christine scoffed and turned away, incredulous. "Of course you do," she muttered.

"How did you get so hurt?" she asked.

"Mob," he said, clearing his throat. "After the fire."

Christine sighed, barely able to form words. "The Daroga, said you had a final wish…"

Erik sighed.

"Christine… you didn't - you should not have come here."

The muscles of Christine's brow line pinched and she stuttered as she searched for words. She was not entirely sure what she was expecting of this visit, but this wasn't quite it. "But Monsieur Khan said you wished to see me."

"Why would I ever wish for you to see me this way?" he rasped. Her mentor stared pleadingly at her, so desperate for something. So ruined, even less of a man he once might have been.

Christine pushed away the pain that threatened to creep up on her. Erik let his head roll to the side, concealing his deformity and avoiding her gaze out of shame.

"He told me that you're dying," she said. "I now see that is no exaggeration."

Something that might have resembled a dry laugh wheezed from Erik's lungs.

"It has been months. How -" Christine swallowed the thick emotion gathering in her throat. "How have you not died, in this state?"

"Because God will not let me," he said, voice as cold as the grave.

The woman's eyes slipped shut against a tear; she drew her lips tight, turned away. She could barely handle it, seeing her old friend this way.

Her fallen angel.

Erik coughed weakly once more, sputtered against the tiny trickle of blood that leaked from the corner of his mouth. "Please, Christine, leave me. You don't deserve to see this." His chest rattled as he inhaled. "It's alright."

It's alright.

She whipped her head to glare at him through glassy eyes.

No. Not after all this.

"I am grateful to have seen you, one last time," Erik confessed. He turned his head slowly to look to her and instantly her frustration softened and gave way. He seemed to try to drink in the sight of her, every inch, as he used to back before everything was ruined. Savoring it, she realized. Trying to commit her to memory. She could not tear away from his gaze, pleading and filled with lifetimes worth of sorrow. But somehow, still looking to her with such admiration, revere and fondness. Hot trails of tears muddied the powder around the rim of her mask, but she kept her face drawn tight.

"I'm so sorry, Christine."

Christine let out a sob before she stifled herself, shaking her head. He had meant it, she realized. It was not nearly enough to make up for what he done, but he truly meant it. She was witnessing a dying man praying to repent to the one thing he still believed in. It stole the breath from her lungs.

The last piece of her forgotten puzzle clicked, and an image larger than her, than life itself, sank into her mind.

She needed him.

She needed to save him.

What she had searched for those past months, while staring blankly into mirrors, avoiding the outside world, withering away, was an equal. A reflection that matched her own, someone who could truly understand. Something in her life that she still had the power to fix, since the rest had been destroyed.

Erik could bring her back to life.

Without another word she turned to the gondola, hiking up her hem and climbing in. Erik watched in silent desperation, praying for just one more moment. She untied the boat, looking back once more to her old companion with a new, strange hope.

"I will be back."


	6. Chapter 6

**Clean**

It wasn't difficult for Christine to find Monsieur Khan. Once the hours of the day reflected a more respectable time, she wandered to the closest post building and took one worker to the side. She passed a generous bill to an employee, who in turn disappeared to find the Persian in their archives. While Christine waited she couldn't help but glance testily around at the other early birds of Paris, hoping none would recognize the young singer. Something about the entire affair felt scandalous, to go behind her fiancés back. He was probably still asleep, tucked away while the sun climbed into the sky.

As soon as Christine retrieved the address, she was off in a carriage. It turned out that Erik's friend lived on the outskirts of the city, in a more...affordable area. It reminded her much of her childhood home, where she'd skip through the streets and sing folk tunes for her adoring neighbors. Most women of a higher regard would shy away from these darker, dirtier parts, but to Christine, it was home.

It took her some time to navigate the tangle of streets, weaving past small market stands and creeping through dank alleys. It appeared that Khan lived in a dime-in-a-dozen flat building. She took a steadying breath, looked once more to confirm the number, and marched into the building and up the narrow stairs.

The hallways of the building were dim and stale, with chipped walls exposing the brick beneath. The numbers continued down the hall, leading her further into the shadowy walls. The apartment she was searching for - 24 - was on the right. She knocked before she gave herself time to reconsider.

Christine's ears perked at the sound of shuffling on the other end of the door, a deep voice murmuring foreign words that sounded like they were dipped in spice. The door abruptly swung open on screeching hinges, revealing the Daroga. His form towered over her and practically reeked of sleep. His eyes were barely cracked open, his hair a wild dark mop that fell in his face. Christine leaned back, suddenly fearing that she made a mistake in disturbing the mysterious man. But as soon as the man saw her he woke up with a start.

"Miss Daae," he exclaimed. "Is all well?"

"My apologies," Christine stammered. "I forgot the hour."

"Fret not, I was starting to wake anyway." He moved out of the way if the threshold, waved her in. "Please, come in. It's frigid in these halls."

Christine paused, considered. It really wasn't the most decent thing to do, enter a man's private home at the crack of dawn. But then again, nothing she had done so far that day had been decent.

She stepped in with a short nod.

Monsieur Khan offered her a seat on his sofa, crossed over to the kitchen where he had a pot of tea brewing. "Can I offer you something to drink?" He called over.

"I'm fine, thank you." Christine straightened her skirts, tried to be polite with how she looked around the flat. The foreign touches that hung about the room was like none other she had ever seen. Almost none of the hardwood floors could be seen, buried under olive and wine colored rugs, hand-woven with careful patterns. The air had a light fog looming in its corners, accompanied by the faint scent of incense sticks. Gold embellishments hung from the walls and decorated table tops. There was not a corner in the apartment that was not covered in something that once was bathed in the desert light.

The foreigner caught her careful glances and chuckled. "It's a bit of a change from the typical Parisian taste." He joined her in the lounge area, sitting cross-legged in a chair across from her. He noticed at once the dark smudges that formed shadows around her eyes, the slight exhausted puff to the sliver of skin he could see. His thick brows furrowed. "Has something happened?" He asked. "Please do not take offense, but you do not look well."

"I went to visit Erik," she said. She surprised herself at how confident she explained what happened. Something that could never be confessed under the De Chagny roof.

The man paused, concern darkening his expression. "How did that go, is he alright?"

Christine shook her head, urging away the heavy grief that hit her at the thought of him. "No, he is not. He's...he's worse than I thought he would be. I fear he will die if he stays down there any longer."

Something occurred to the singer, and she looked back up to the Daroga. "He said that he never instructed you to find me."

He sighed, blinking slowly. "I was desperate," he said softly. "I feared for his life, he simply gave in. I couldn't bear for him to simply deteriorate, and he mentioned you so often. He never stopped talking about you." The Persian's eyes glassed over, showing the same grief and pain that Christine was dealing with. "I hoped that the one person he admired most might be able to convince him."

Christine refused to be affected by the fragile words. Instead, she steeled and leaned in, clasping her hands in her lap. "Then Monsieur, I need you help."

The Daroga was much more confident and casual about his trek down into the cellars beneath the Populaire remains. He had another, shorter route from a hidden work latch behind what used to be the building's back wall. The river was accessed by a ladder that seemed to descend into complete darkness. As they climbed down Christine tried her best to ignore how steep the fall would be, how much the thin bars rattled.

The pair landed on a ledge that overlooked the still waters. The man picked up a lantern he claimed to have put their for visits and led them along the narrow path. Christine hugged the wall while the Persian kept a paranoid eye peeled.

After only a few sharp turns the two were spit out behind a wall that didn't quite match the rest of the underground. The Persian guided her to a small door on the edge of the wall, concealed in shadows. He shoved it as far as it could - it collided with a toppled dresser - and helped her climb over it by taking her hand in his own. She patted down the layers to her dress, took a steadying breath.

They were in her maestro's private room, what was left of it, at least. A room she never dared even look towards before.

Monsieur Khan still led her through the doors to the outside area, but with each step her own confidence grew. She was still apprehensive. She still feared that she was making a massive mistake, but she needed to do this. She didn't need the Daroga for emotional support, just strength.

When she came across Erik by the curtains, sprawled, her heart dropped. He was slumped down the wall, limp, head lolled to the side and eyes closed. His chest barely rose with breath, his skin as pale as porcelain. She sprinted over, her mind filling with the worst possible thoughts. Monsieur Khan looked to her, puzzled, then to the man and followed closely behind.

Christine skidded to his side, falling onto her knees. "Erik, Erik please," she breathed. The Daroga, straightfaced, hoisted the sick man into his lap. He checked his pulse, then continued to rub the Phantom's chest vigorously with his knuckles. Christine looked up to him with concern. "What are you doing?"

"It should help wake him," he explained, eerily calm. Christine had forgotten that the man was a police officer at one point. "Talk to him," he instructed. "Try to wake him up."

Without any hesitance Christine bent forward, face to face with her teacher. "Erik," she murmured, voice sweet and nurturing. She cradled the underside of his head with one hand, smoothed back the hair in his face with her free fingers. She grazed her free hand along his unmarred cheek, traced the curve of his brow lovingly. "Erik, wake up. Wake up, my angel. Please." My angel. The words echoed in her mind like a faded dream.

Slowly, Erik began to groan through constricted lungs. He blinked drowsily, just barely moving his head to lean into Christine's touch. The Daroga continued the sternum rub but quietly watched, just shy of astonishment. Christine smiled down at him, encouraged him with quiet, gentle words. Erik looked up at her, barely conscious, but his eyes seemed to glow with admiration. He did not flinch when the girl's fingers skidded across the crater in his scalp, if anything he seemed to sigh at the gesture. The one time the Persian had ever tried to reveal his deformity, he had been beaten to a pulp by an animalistic impulse. But this woman, she had managed to break through his walls. He couldn't believe it.

Erik came to and was greeted with the sight of an angel. Despite, he knew he wasn't dead - it was his Christine. She had come back. He tried to speak, to even whisper her name, but nothing left him but a wheeze of a cough. She gently blotted at the corner of his mouth, staring at him with such deep concern, almost motherly.

Something was wrong, though - her eyes read of such worry and fear, but the immediate area around her eyes was neutral, bright and smooth. Her eyebrows - too manicured - did not knit or furrow. The only emotion in her entire face came from her shadowed eyes.

He struggled to lift a hand, trembling with the effort, to trace the faint line that was drawn across her cheeks - something was terribly wrong. He could faintly remember it from when she visited before. A peculiar shadow, something artificial to her.

A mask…

The last thing he recalled before he slipped under the blanket of sleep once more was Christine gingerly pressing his hand back down to the mattress.

"The first thing that I would suggest is that he needs to eat," The Daroga instructed. He was already in the tiny kitchen Erik had stowed away in the corner, searching for anything edible that hadn't spoiled. He sighed and gave up after searching the room for the third time. "Someone must stay with him while he sleeps," he said. "But we need groceries."

They had moved the Phantom from his spot against the wall to his old bedroom, finding that the broken bed would have to suffice. His breathing had steadied, but there was still much to do.

"I shall make a trip to the market then," Christine said, checking her clutch for her money. "I should have enough for a week's supply-"

"Sorry, mademoiselle," Daroga interrupted, raising a palm to halt her. "I insist that you be the one to stay."

Christine huffed, crossing her arms. "Monsieur Khan, I am fully capable of shopping on my own."

"I have no doubt," he said. "However, if he is to wake, he will be much more pleased to see you than me."

He had a point, she admitted.

Once he had left she began to pace, realizing she was not sure what to do with herself. Her maestro was fully unconscious, there was not much that she could do for him, and sitting by his side only filled her with such worry, each time she looked at him. Perhaps, she thought, she could change that.

It was risky, if not completely forbidden and scandalous. But she couldn't bear to look at him in this dirtied and neglected state, so semblant of a discarded corpse. She was going to bathe him.

She retrieved a basin from the bathroom, filled it with the water that the Daroga had put on the hearth earlier. She grabbed whatever cloth she could find lying around that wasn't complete dirtied and returned to her mentor's side.

Christine considered where to begin first, but drew a blank. From his face, caked with sweat and dirt, to the mysterious blood stain coming from his rib cage beneath his shirt. Did she want to ease into the task, or get the worst done first?

She soaked the first cloth, wrung it, and decided on his face. She lightly ran the cloth across his forehead, working her way across his smooth side, then over to the deformities. Admittedly, she was afraid of hurting him; she knew he had these marks since birth, but some of the twists and pinches, so jagged and swollen, looked like they could be painful. She dabbed as carefully as possible, revealing bright welts and softening shadows, now that they were clear of dirt.

As she moved onto the uneven plains of his right cheek, his eyes fluttered open. Even when consumed in the unconscious he knew when something was wrong, when someone could see. His eyes, so weak and barely cracked open, blazed with alarm once he seemed to understand what Christine was doing. She risked a glance to those eyes, so vulnerable, and was snared into his stare. Her hand smoothing the cloth over his cheek came to a stop, along with the rest of the hidden world around them.

"Does it hurt?" She asked, swallowing past the dryness in her throat.

He blinked slowly, something in his expression softening. "No," he whispered.

Christine paused before nodding, forcing herself to draw away from his gaze and continue her work. The entire time, from lifting his head to clean his scalp, to swiping along the pale expanse of his neck, to rinsing the cloth, he stared. But it wasn't so much a look of calculation, but more of wonder. Wonder that someone could show him such care.

Christine picked up the next cloth, dampened it. She stared at the buttons running down Erik's chest, tauntingly. Her finger twitched, nerves dancing along her arms. The man seemed to understand and his own eyes flared. His jaw shifted, fists balled. "I'm fine," he rasped.

Christine faltered before shaking her head. She made work of the first buttons still intact. Instantly she froze, however, when the shirt refused to budge from his skin. From beneath the fabric she could see an angry gash - no, a burn - that raked across his collarbone. The skin had barely healed, and what did was bubbling and grotesquely discolored and scabbed. A foul smell that Christine had not noticed before wafted up from the wound. Infection.

The man winced at the pull of the fabric, the corners of his vision spotting. He had been dealt many wounds in his past, but none had ever been left untreated. He now understood why he was always so careful before.

Little by little, Christine pulled the shirt away; Erik gasped and nearly cried out at the last corners of the burn before it was freed from the fabric. Christine whispered dozens of frantic apologies as she continued down the line of buttons.

Heat rose to her cheeks, burning and horrible, when she reached the fasten of his pants. Not allowing herself to dwell on the task, she pulled the tails free with a haste. Erik was grateful, but remained dangerously silent as his chest rose and fell with quiet heaves.

Christine pulled the shirt back, revealing what she hoped was only three major problems. What appeared to be a shallow stab wound in his side, a long slash across his stomach, and horrible bruising that stained his upper rib cage.

She pushed back the nausea at the sight, the two gashes riddled with dried blood and infection. This was not how she planned on spending her day. She set to work, cleaning each spot one by one with the most meticulous care. Each time she wrung the cloth out into the basin, the water dripped from her hands the color of rust.

Finally, she seemed to clean his front off. The rest would have to wait, she had run out of clean cloth and she didn't have the nerve to clean the rest of him. The pain seemed to have pushed Erik closer to passing out, he could barely keep his eyes open. "Rest, maestro," Christine coaxed, pulling the blanket up to cover him.

"I don't want to close my eyes," he mumbled, barely able to form the words against the onslaught of fatigue.

"Why not?"

"I fear you won't be here when I wake."

Christine shuddered a sigh, fought back a sudden wave of hurt. After everything that had happened, his will and strength had completely shattered. He was desperate for her to stay with him, to see him even in his most vulnerable state. It was almost enough to break her heart all over again.

"I promise you, I won't leave."

Something in Erik's resolve slipped, and from the corner of his eye fell a single tear. Slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, she lifted her finger to wipe the tear away. He leaned further into her touch, craving as much as he could get before it disappeared once again. He closed his eyes; before he could fight it, the pull of sleep dragged him under.

Christine had not heard Daroga come back in. He had forgotten his money, and made it down the street before he realized. When he returned, he watched from afar as Christine finished cleaning Erik's chest with caring, careful strokes. They exchanged short, hushed words, ones that he could not decipher from so far - but believed they were not his to know.


	7. Chapter 7

(A/N: Hey guys, sorry it's been so long ! I hate this chapter but it's kinda the necessary healing-process filler. The next one will be better, promise!)

 **Chapter 7**

 **Discover**

"Where have you been?"

Christine looked up from the door that she was trying to ease shut. Raoul was there, waiting patiently with a hand on his hip. He must have heard her carriage pull up. Her heart skipped, she hadn't thought this far ahead. The day had been so taxing that she had almost completely forgotten about the person she would return to for dinner.

"I was just out," Christine quickly fibbed. She damned her voice for raising, praying her fiance did not notice. "I wanted some fresh air. I just needed to get away for some time to explore."

Raoul's brows furrowed. "For the entire day?"

What time was it? Christine fumbled for an answer, mouth opening and closing to silent words. "I'm sorry," she said. "I must have gotten distracted. It's been so long…"

The vicomte looked her over once, his suspicions clearly growing. "Your dress is filthy."

Christine shifted her skirts, cringing at the glimpse of brown stains that crept up the hem. "It must have rained last night, no matter what path I took I was greeted with puddles." She prayed to God that Raoul bought her lie - and that he hadn't gone outside himself that day.

Raoul said nothing, simply passed her a critical stare, as if calculating her excuse. The vicomte was unsure what to make of it all. Christine had been so quiet, so distant from him, ever since the night of Don Juan. It was almost as if the tragedy had broken something deep within her that allowed her to be the woman he grew to love. She was something different now, something unfamiliar to him. He saw through her sloppy lies with ease; the Christine he knew would never lie to him.

He knew she was lying. For the streets were dry while he watched Christine creep away from the house at the crack of dawn that morning. The knowledge of her lie weighed on his chest, like a sharpened nail pressing into his heart.

"You missed dinner," he informed his bride. "A plate is set for you at the table. I waited for you to return."

Christine huffed, walking up to him with a rehearsed ease. She tucked her arms under his and offered him a tight embrace. He felt her mask drag as its corner caught one of his buttons. "You didn't have to," she mumbled into his shirt.

Raoul gave her shoulders a half-hearted squeeze, led her to the dining hall. They ate in relative silence, unspoken words hanging in the still air between them. He studied every inch he could of her, trying to pinpoint differences in her behavior. Her hands had the most miniscule tremor as she lifted the spoon from her stew to her lips. She looked down into her bowl, or to her glass, but never to him. As if something would be revealed if they made eye contact.

They spoke little the rest of the night. Christine tried to engage him, ask how his day had been, any news, and her, do you remember that one day when we were children… he replied only with one-word answers, unenthusiastic and uncharacteristically pessimistic. She eventually gave up, let him sulk.

Something was terribly wrong with Raoul. Never was he so closed off from her, it terrified her. There was no way he could have known… she had been silent and painstakingly careful. She must have just been reading into it.

Or perhaps it was that Raoul missed her. He had confessed to her once before that he feared that she did not love him anymore. Maybe it was his own insecurities.

When they turned the light off for bed that night Christine made sure to lean forward and kiss him first. She channeled as much love and honesty that she could into him through their embrace, but he did not reciprocate. His lips remained lifeless against hers.

She broke the kiss, found his bright eyes in the dark of their room. "I love you, Raoul. And I am so beyond grateful for all that you've done for me."

The vicomte searched her eyes, for any reason to believe her. But something low in his soul begged him not to trust her words.

"Has he woken?"

"After two days, yes," the Daroga answered, relief in his voice. He stirred twice at a pot set on the stove before grabbing two bowls that he must have brought from his own home. "His arm had been broken, but it must have healed significantly over the past few months."

Of course, Christine thought. He may have been hopelessly lost, but he would never compromise his arms and hands. They were the tools he needed for his music. It must have been the one thing he nursed.

"The wounds are infected, but thankfully the severity is not as bad as I originally anticipated. I applied an ointment of various herbs and honey to them."

Christine blinked, not sure if she heard that last part right. "Honey…?"

The man looked up and nodded with brows raised. "Honey has many curative properties. It has never failed me." He scooped some dark soup into a bowl and set it aside. "Much of his wounds beneath the infection seemed to have healed already," he explained. "It is merely the surface layer that has been troublesome, but the inflammation seems to have already calmed. I believe our friend should make a relatively successful recovery in no time at all.

"The only problem," he huffed, "will be making him eat. My attempts in the past were met with curses and spitting. I doubt his reaction will differ at all as long as I am the one to feed him." He held out the bowl to her, clearly hopeful. "However, I believe you may have some better luck." At Christine's hesitance, the Persian's olive eyes set downcast. "Mademoiselle, he must eat. His body is exhausted, and things will only worsen if he does not agree to feed it."

Christine took the bowl, two spoons, and crossed the decrepit room to her maestro's door. She raised a knuckle to the door and was greeted by a hoarse - but stronger, firmer - voice that yelled out something foreign. The singer could tell from the snap and whine of the tone that whatever the voice had just said was not something that should grace a lady's ears. "What did he say?" Christine whispered sharply to the Daroga, looking back with concern.

The foreigner waved it off while he prepared his own bowl. "Ignore him. He's simply cranky."

Christine eased the door open, peered around its edge hesitantly. She, in truth, was scared to see him. Had he worsened? Or was he fully conscious now, aware of her presence again? Which option was worse? As if on cue the lip of her mask caused her cheek to tingle; damn! There was no way he would not notice the mask.

At the sight of the soprano at his door, Erik stiffened and his eyes grew wide. "Christine!" He breathed.

The woman couldn't help but freeze in wonder at the sight of him. The Erik from only two days ago and the one she saw now was like comparing night and day. Whereas before it appeared that he was on the brink of death he now looked as if he merely had the flu. His skin still had a pale sheen to it, but it no longer carried yellow sickness in its complexion. The softer light in his bedroom softened his edges just enough that he resembled a man once more instead of a skeleton. He was still horribly sick, and dangerously thin, but he was awake, lucid, alive.

In the next moment he threw the ravaged half of his face into the pillow that he sat back against. He lashed his hand out to the nightstand beside him and pulled open the drawer, fumbling around blindly and wincing as he stretched out the wounds trying to heal. Christine moved to help him but he held up a shaking palm. "Please." His voice still trembled with vulnerable fear. His hands landed on something with a soft thump and he pulled it out, no sooner fastening it to the hidden half of him. A spare mask, made of a rough, brown leather.

Had the circumstances been different, Christine might have insisted he leave the mask off; it could not have been worth so much trouble and pain just to hide what she already knew to be there. But now she wore one of her own. She understood the shelter and security it brought. She let him adjust the tie at the back of his head without a word.

Then came that arresting stare as she crossed the room, head lowered in the manner she had become so accustomed to in the past three months. She hoped that it was enough to hide her secret, but as always those eyes seemed to shred past all vanity and secrets and straight to her core. Something shone in his expression, soft, timid, but peaceful nonetheless. "You came back," he said, something fragile teetering in his voice.

Christine risked a sidelong glance at him, chose to ignore what he said. She motioned to the edge of Erik's bed, telling him in hushed tones to move over. He did so with a small hiss, pulled the threadbare quilts up to cover his chest.

Christine had not noticed it when she had first walked in, but he was now shirtless. His porcelain skin was wrapped with bandages in neat zigzags, but was still bare. She knew it was in order to let the wounds breathe, to allow his body to cool from its fever, but still her cheeks felt rosy beneath their cover. She had never even seen Raoul, her fiance, without a shirt outside of stolen glances. From the corner of her diverted gaze she saw black tendrils of ink that danced along his arm beneath skin, intricate patterns that carved the shape of sinew and shifting muscle. She contained her shock at the sight of the tattoos; she had never before seen one in real life. Where in hell did he get one as large as his? It engulfed his entire forearm.

Erik seemed to understand her discomfort and feel his own. He could not bring himself to look directly at her and slid his decorated arm to his side in hopes of hiding it. He sniffed, glancing to the soup she sat in her lap. "What is that?"

"Dinner," Christine answered plainly. She stirred the contents of the bowl before lifting a spoonful to him.

Erik grimaced for a short moment before decidedly claiming that he was not hungry. He sounded not far from a stubborn child; all he was missing was crossing his arms and pouting, though he seemed fairly close to the latter.

Christine sighed and glared at him, taking on the parental role he seemed to force form her lately. "You may give Daroga a hard time, but I will not accept it. I am down here for your benefit, and I am putting my time aside to aid you. I will not have my efforts be wasted." She pushed the spoon closer to his warped lips.

He stared her down with uncertainty flitting across his face, before he leaned forward just enough to take the spoon between parted lips. He lifted a hand to cover his mouth as he slurped, unable to keep the stew entirely in his mouth. Christine noticed as some dribbled down the corner of the bloated half of his lips which seemed unable to fully close. Erik's visible cheek was dusted a fair shade of pink and he averted his gaze.

She had never thought of how eating might be a challenge for him with his mouth being so malformed; it suddenly made sense why she had never seen him eat before. Funny, she had never thought of something so trivial prior to that day. The more she saw of this side of the Phantom, so human and exposed, the more she realized that she had regarded him barely as a man beforehand. He was somehow beyond that. Perhaps she thought of him more as some form of a deity before. A twisted, malevolent deity.

Erik's face twisted at the taste that he swallowed back. "It has been...a number of years since I've tasted that," he said. He looked to the door as if searching for the cook. "I assume you've met Nadir, then."

"If Nadir refers to the middle-eastern in your kitchen, then yes." She lifted the spoon once more, catching a sharp whiff of spices.

"How did he find you?"

"I suppose it could not have been too difficult," Christine said. "Apparently you spoke of me often."

His eyes shifted to the spoon, then back to her. She could see the apprehension riddling his face, noticed the slight sheen of his puckered lower lip from the stew. His cheek was still tinged with embarrassment.

Dawning on a sudden idea, she motioned for him to take the spoon from her. With hesitance he did, and she retrieved the spare spoon. Without a thought she ate the stew; Erik watched with a vague look of amusement. Instantly Christine regretted her decision. A wave of heat and spices she had never before tasted sparked on her tongue. Her eyes squeezed shut and she shook her head furiously against the flavors. She heard a barely-there chuckle coming from her side and managed to calm down enough to look to Erik, who lifted his spoon to his mouth to hide the corners of a tiny little smile. She passed a napkin to him, he kept it held to his lips.

"I take it you've never tried Persian cuisine."

Christine shook her head and coughed between embarrassed chuckles. When was the last time she had smiled so naturally?

They ate in content silence for some time, till the bowl was down to its end. Despite the heat of the dish, she liked it very much. It had a flare she had never experienced before in Paris dishes. She would have to ask Nadir for his recipe.

Erik cleared his throat and looked up to her with measure. "Why the mask?"

Christine knew the question would come, but she still was unprepared for it. Her heart stopped dead in her chest as she glanced shiftily to the man beside her, whose eyes betrayed a concern she was not used to seeing from him. "Would you believe me if I told you it was for a sense of security?" she murmured.

She was not ready for Erik to know the truth; she was unsure if she ever would be. She now understood the trust he found in his mask: it was a promise that her secret would be hidden from the rest of the world. Besides, how was she supposed to tell Erik of what had happened to her tragic face? He was the only person left who did not know about her stumbles into the fire. She wanted to preserve this sliver of normalcy - if it could be considered normal - for as long as she could.

Something in Erik's eyes softened. His lips pursed, he said nothing. An unspoken agreement to mention it no more passed between them.

"May I ask -"

Christine's head shot up, annoyance and anxiety spiking her nerves. Had they not just settled that the mask was to be forgotten? Erik held up his hands in mock-surrender, continuing with caution. "May I ask why you came back?" he finished.

Christine filled with guilt and a tinge of embarrassment at her harshness . She realized she didn't quite have an answer for him. She knew for herself, that it brought some selfish sense of gratification to show him compassion. That it gave her some purpose in an otherwise bleak life. But what was she supposed to tell him? How much did she want him to know?

Her fingers twitched and knotted in her lap. She suddenly could not meet his eyes, so skilled at unarming her. "I could not let a suicidal idiot such as yourself be ruined. Not one with so much potential."

"And what exactly do you think my potential is?" It was not a mocking question, but a masked desperation to know that she believed in him. That there was any hope for him at all.

Christine pondered for a moment, before softly saying, "Everything. Redemption, kindness, a normal existence."

She noticed the way his breath shuddered in his chest. Quivering and unsure and human. "Do you truly believe something so impossible can be achieved?" His eyes burned into her, clawing at any forgiveness and hope he might find. He couldn't recall anyone ever saying such kind words to him.

Christine's breath caught in her throat, suddenly challenged by a new wave of sorrow and pity. He was so easily shattered, so worn down and drained of hope. The facade of a confident, alluring man was now an almost unbelievable memory to her.

"I believe," she said, "that anyone can achieve it. Even those as sinful as you."

There was a long, tense moment where he was completely silent, frozen. A stolen glance at him revealed glassy eyes, lips softly parted in disbelief. "The mercy you have gifted me…" He trailed off, his voice turning to a mere whisper. She felt the edges of his fingers skirt across the back of her hand, his skin as cold as the tomb. She nearly jumped at the sensation, having forgotten how strangely frigid he always was. As if he had just shaken hands with Death. His hand settled steadily against hers after a long pause and she looked up to him once more. He caught her gaze instantly, waiting for it. "Christine, I do not deserve what you have given me. You continue to astonish me. I am - I am a humbled, humiliated man in your presence."

She could tell in the way his palm lingered over her hand how fearful he was. Of rejection, of hurting her, who knew. Perhaps he was terrified of it all. The way his eyes searched hers for any remnants of affection tore her apart. He looked to her as if she was his first ever glimpse of sunlight. She placed her other hand over his, hoping it was enough to show what words could not.

Ensnared in his eyes as she was, she noticed something she had never before picked up: Erik's eyes were mismatched. It was a slight mutation; the eye belonging to his deformed side had a curve of clear blue amongst the dark brown she was used to, like a crescent moon in a sky of darkness. She was hopelessly lost in its pull.

The Persian clearing his throat from the doorway broke the pair from their moment. They both looked to him as if caught in some shameful act, remembering that the two were not alone. So often it seemed their time was interrupted. Christine was once more glad she had the shield of her mask to hide her rosy cheeks.

"My apologies for the intrusion," Nadir said, holding up a roll of clean, bright gauze and a handful of tiny bottles of solutions. "But it's time for me to change Monsieur Phantom's bandages."

Christine stood at once, pulling her hands away from the man beside her and clasping them in front of her skirts. "I shall begin cleaning and tidying," she declared. As she crossed the room, she locked eyes with Nadir. "And please, no more of this Phantom nonsense. From now on he will only be Erik. The Opera Ghost is dead."

The Daroga nodded, seeming to be relieved. As she left the room, she caught the quiet astonishment riddled across Erik's features.

Two more days passed before Christine dared return. She spent the time with Raoul, insisting that they leave the comfort of their home for an afternoon. They ate at an old favorite cafe, strolled through the park with blissful abandon. Christine aimed her face high to the winter sun, armed with an inkling of confidence she had not possessed a week before. The time outside and away must have helped her more than she expected.

She held Raoul's hand, clung to his arm and dotted his face with sweet kisses, but he was reluctant to return the affections. It was almost like a cruel role reversal. His smiles were forced, tight and unusual on his lips. Normally there was such an ease to him, an almost ignorant cheer. Doubt crept into the corners of Christine's mind, worry that he knew or began to suspect that she was lying to him.

Christine attended one of the Count's dinners the next night to try to further convince Raoul that she was alright. She laughed politely along with the guests, reminiscing on fond memories that they apparently shared. She stayed by Raoul's side for the entire night, the picture of the ideal wife. Without realizing it, she slipped into a new role; an opera house was not needed.

The next morning, she left as soon as the vicomte had awoken, saying that she wanted some air. Raoul nodded, offered a soft kiss and told her to be back for supper. Then she snuck off to the charred ruins of the Opera Populaire, down into the dungeons where she cleaned a trashed lair and force fed a stubborn Erik. This was the pattern she fell into for the next three weeks: play at a happy engagement with her vicomte, then escape to the place where her soul called to the loudest.

Soon enough the dwellings underneath the Populaire resembled a humbled version of what they once were. No more papers and broken shards of furniture littered the bay, no overturned mannequins and bureaus. The remaining furnishing was nothing lavish, but it was liveable: A chaise and chair in a living area, a spare room with what was once her old bed, his bedroom, a messy kitchen and lavatory.

The man of the lair began to resemble himself once more as well. He began to walk again - slowly, with a considerable limp and unfamiliar stupor, like a doe on brand new legs. The harsh cut of his hollowed cheeks faded and softened. His frail voice hardened and broadened and his sickly tremors gave way to smooth, fluid movements that Christine didn't realize she missed.

Each day, the man she knew as her angel of music returned to her. At first she feared it - the more he emerged, the more she worried that the obsessed and dangerous side of him would break through. But the man that emerged from his deathbed was...different. Christine was yet to pinpoint exactly what it was, but it brought a small glimmer of hope to her heart.

Any time his temper spiked, even in the slightest, the Daroga stormed in and delivered a swift smack to the back of his head. The two would bark heated, foreign words in a frenzy that always flustered the woman, but it always ended with Erik grumbling in defeat. Christine could not help the small fit of giggles that would erupt from her every time the Persian's hand swiped against Erik's head. Never did she think she would witness the notorious Phantom of the Opera being slapped. She quickly learned who exactly the music box, Jackass, was named after.

Nadir came by less as the former Phantom healed, but was certain to tell Christine exactly what needed to be done to care for him God forbid things took a turn for the worst.

"His infections are healed," he had informed her as he set out a row of tonics in the lavatory. "But he would insist that all was well, even if he had a bullet between his eyes. You and I both know this." He turned to her, jabbing a finger out in the general direction of Erik's quarters. "So you must keep an eye on him. I trust him to be alone, but you must be careful."

"I cannot thank you enough for your help in all of this," Christine had said. She pulled the older man into a tight hug, filled with warmth and the faint aroma of spices and sun.

"Fret not," Nadir said, gently returning her affection. "I doubt Erik will miss me, but I will still stop in."

She listened from outside the door as the two men exchanged short, quiet words in a tongue she could not understand. But amongst the deep, weaving voices she heard the occasional chuckle, a nostalgic sigh. She hoped that somewhere amongst their quiet bickering, something semblant of a farewell was said.

Nadir left that same day with no more than a polite farewell, a wise and kind smile, and a short dip of his unusual little hat. In the few weeks she had known the man, she somehow formed such a deep connection with him - perhaps it was that his generosity, his candor. Maybe it was the common goal the two shared. Or the decades of foreign wisdom he had shared with her. Whatever it was, it had her dabbing at moist eyes with a bittersweet smile.

The moment the Daroga disappeared into the dank shadows of the lake, an uncomfortable weight settled into the air. Unease bubbled up in Christine's throat as she looked sidelong at the door to Erik's chambers, left swung open. The lair was entirely silent, she could hear her pulse racing in her ears, feel her heart fluttering against her rib cage.

It dawned on her the moment he called out to her, as if his voice ripped from her conscious the answers she needed. The Daroga had always been there every time she wandered down below. He was always a room over, God forbid something in Erik caved to his desire for her. She was completely alone with the man who had threatened her freedom, kidnapped her, nearly killed her fiance. Murdered two people.

The Phantom emerged from the doorway, face portraying a smooth innocence. As soon as his eyes found her, his brow pinched and he motioned for her to join him. She faltered, hands held in front of her chest, before she joined him in the makeshift living area.

Erik clasped his bony hands in his lap, searched her fearful eyes as she sat across from him. His face softened and a deep regret shadowed his eyes. "You fear me," he stated. Not a question, a confirmation.

Christine looked away, partially in shame. "Can you blame me, truly?" Her voice shook with every word. "After all that has transpired between us?"

"You mean after all I've done."

"Yes," she breathed.

Erik's eyes closed, lips drawn tight in a way revealed their warped ends from behind his mask. A sliver of the beast hidden from view. "Christine. Please." His breath turned shallow, the fingers in his lap turning to claws that gripped at his knees. "There is not enough time in the world to explain how I have acted towards you, towards those you love." He couldn't help the slight scowl that shaded his face as he said the last word. The image of a bright and successful vicomte flashed behind his eyes. He fought against his creeping anger and looked back to her, his muse, his light, his reason to live. Just the sight of her, despite how she changed, the pain that now riddled her once-bright eyes, was enough to calm the smoldering rages in his soul. She was a remedy to his suffering.

He leaned forward to meet her, holding out his hands to her. She looked from his eyes to his hands before placing her hands in his palms. He wasted no time, grasping them with the lightest caress. "Know, Christine, that I would never hurt you. My actions are unforgivable and have no excuse. But there is not a thing in this world I would not do if it would result in your happiness."

Christine's lower lip quivered and she closed her eyes against the stubborn tears that slipped free. They gathered against the lip of her mask - that curious, puzzling mask - before falling over the edge and down her face. She nodded and sniffled quietly. "I know," she sighed.

Erik lifted her hands to his lips, daring to press his own damned flesh to her knuckles in a chaste kiss. He shivered at the trace of perfume that drifted from her wrists, at how soft her fingers were against his own. So small and defined compared to his sharp, calloused ones.

Christine knew that what he said was true. Oh, how she knew. In his delusions before he had killed for her. He released her after Don Juan because it would make her happy. All of his actions were motivated by her.

The second his mottled lips landed on her skin, she realized that it was now her job to guide him away from the poison that tainted his soul. It was the only way she would recover from her own.

Two careful months passed without incident. She had begun to find comfort in the new routine, despite its risks. Christine arranged a surprise for Erik, reaching out to various sources in secret to prepare the gift. She sprung from the shadows of the dungeons one day with her hands clasped behind her back, nearly giddy with nerves. Her eyes landed on Erik, sat in the living area with a guitar in his hands. His fingers worked nimbly against the strings, producing a dark melody that floated through the thick air of the lake. He glanced up to her with suspicion. "Hello, Christine."

"I have a gift," was all Christine said. She grinned from ear-to-ear, swayed on her heels.

The man quirked his eyebrow at her manners, almost coquettish in how she waited. She never ceased to amuse him. "I gathered as much," he said. He set the guitar down and motioned her over.

Christine wandered over with zero hesitance, a far cry from how things had been when she first ventured down, over two months ago. Movements and thoughts once laced with fear and fury now gave way to relief and an unnerving amount of peace. This new, softer side to her maestro reminded her so much of the first ever time she had met him, when he sang her to sleep, let her watch by his side as he composed, living in a comfortable silence. She had not thought of those times in so long; she began to realize how deeply she had missed them.

She presented the box to him, a deep red adorned with a gold ribbon and bow. He rolled his eyes at the presentation, but was still mindful not to tear it. Christine watched from across the living space with baited breath and had to bite down on her lip to keep from bursting out and ruining the surprise. He pulled the lid off and the breath rushed from his lungs at what lay before him.

In the small box, sat atop a pillow of colored tissue, was a porcelain mask so white and fresh and pure that it glew in the soft candlelight.

The man grew frighteningly still, as if turned to stone at the sight of the gift. "I know how much comfort the mask brings you," Christine rushed to explain, suddenly wondering if she had misjudged how he would react. His silence could not have been a good sign. "The old one was never found, and I thought...well, I thought it carried too much hurt with it anyway." She shrugged half heartedly, risking a glance up to him. "Besides… I hate that brown thing you have on now."

He looked back up to her, finally freeing himself from the empty gaze from the mask. He struggled to find words, and settled on a strangled "Thank you." He should not have been so surprised at the gesture; Christine was known to continuously break his heart with her simple affections. But this, he saw as a symbol of trust. Handing him the one tool that enabled him to be the terrible creature she suffered from and knowing that it would be different this time. A fresh start, a shot at the redemption she believed him capable of. He ran a hand across the mask's surface, fingers falling along the contours in an all-too familiar method. It was almost an exact replica. Had she somehow memorized the slopes and cuts? Was it etched into her memory as he so often feared?

He glanced up to Christine, about to ask her for permission to try it on, when his eyes settled on something behind her. Something terrible, disastrous.

Christine tilted her head, unable to read what exactly was on his mind. His face had abruptly dropped, somehow paling more than it already was. His eyes grew wide, face turning stony and cold. "Erik?" She tried to intercept his stare but he did not react.

"Christine...?"

The second her name passed her ears, settled into her mind, her heart stopped. A terrible shadow formed and loomed over her, pure dread and shame pulling her down, down down….

She whipped around in her seat and was greeted with the sight of Raoul stood at the edge of the bay.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 **Angel**

Raoul began to back away, eyes wild with terror and humiliation. Christine gasped his name, barely able to breathe. She shot up from her seat, knocking over her chair with a thundering slam. Erik remained dangerously still where he was.

Raoul's lower lip curled out in something of a scowl as he turned away, retreating into the shadows. A lone tear slipped from his eye and he shook his head. Christine ran off in his direction, looking back once more to Erik. Her eyes were wide and frantic, near spilling over. She released a shaking breath, begging through that look.

"Go." The Phantom nodded in the direction where the vicomte fled to. His sudden blinding sense of rage at the sight of him ebbied to the point where he could breathe, close his eyes. Because that look alone from Christine, one more glance from her to make sure he was alright, meant everything. Even in the presence of her precious vicomte, he was on her mind.

But to see the singer run off after him was a sight he was not prepared for. It resembled the night of Don Juan too closely, when his pure insanity drove her away in a hysterical, traumatized frenzy. Off she ran again after a man more deserving of her love. The only saving grace was she was not wearing that damned wedding gown.

Christine sprinted desperately after Raoul, following a swaying lantern light into the tunnels. She tripped, stumbled and whimpered, but continued after him. "Raoul, please," she begged, heaving for breath.

There was a flash of blond waves and curled lip before the lantern clattered to the floor, casting slanted light in every direction. The vicomte seized her arms, fingers digging into tender flesh. She winced and stared at him in shock; never would she have thought him to be so rough.

He closed in with a sneer, eyes wide and glassy. "You liar," he muttered. He backed her up until she felt her back graze the wall. "Of all people in this world to betray me with, him?" He spat the words with such venom that Christine shrank away.

The soprano raised her hands as much as she could between the two of them, clasping them in front of her chest. "Please, my love. It's not what it looks like, I swear to you!"

"What am I to believe?!" Raoul's grip tightened and he shook her. "All this time, all those innocent little walks, were they to him, that thing?"

Christine flinched at the pure hatred in his words. She placed her palms against his broad chest, pleading in any way she could. "If you would let me explain-"

"No!" Raoul drew his hands away, pulled away from her at the first hint of her touch. He backed up with a hand out as if her touch had burned him. He shook his head. "No more, Christine. I'll be made a fool of no more." He picked up the lantern and sniffed; the faint light caught on his tear streaked face. He looked back once more, betrayal and pain warping his features in a way she had never seen. "I believed you," he rasped. "I trusted you."

Christine knew it was no use to try to follow him; she admitted he had frightened her. Alone in the shadows, she had seen such chilling aggression burst from him. Even more, she feared she was the cause for its existence in the first place. Instead she sank to the floor and covered her face as tears rushed freely. The suffocating darkness of the underground tunnels swallowed her whole as her fiance disappeared.

Christine cracked the door to the deChagny residence open later that night and was instantly greeted with the sight of Raoul. He was sat on the bottom steps of the curved staircase, stripped down to a white shirt. The sleeves were rolled and the hem at his waist untucked, and in one hand was a short glass with golden liquor down to its last sip. Dark bags curved under his eyes as he glared at her.

She closed her eyes and shut the door. "What do we do now?"

"We will not do this in front of the rest of the house." He stood and began walking up the stairs without another word. She followed slowly, heart hammering in her chest with each step. He led them to their shared room; every light was turned to its highest degree and their belongings were trashed and scavenged through.

She looked around in astonishment before her eyes fell on her vanity, where amongst scattered ointments and makeup products was her journal. As if on cue, Raoul plucked the book from the desk and began absently flipping through it. "Desperate for any answers," He began, "I began to look around a few weeks ago. You left a drawer in your vanity cracked, and inside I found this."

"You had no right to go through my belongings!" She tried reaching out to snatch it away but he pulled back.

"You lost that right once you went crawling back to that man," he countered, all too calm. She wondered if he had finally snapped; he had handled all of the affairs from the past months with such ease and strength, had it all stayed bottled up, festering? Was this the straw that broke the camel's back?

The singer closed the door and turned back to face the vicomte. "Nothing of that sort has ever occurred between him and I, I swear to you. This is all a horrible misunderstanding."

"Then make me understand!" he bellowed. He held the book, jabbed a finger into its leather cover. "In this book, you speak so fondly of him. Page after page - thousands of words so lovingly scrawled. And when I track you, praying it not to be true, you lead me back to those dungeons. To that monster!" He closed the space between them in two swift strides and shoved the book into her chest. "So make me understand, Christine," he pleaded. "I cannot suffer from anymore deception."

Christine could barely breathe, the sigh she did manage was choked and shuddered. She looked down at the book in her hands, its stories practically leaping from the pages to mock her. She knew the moment she had seen him in the undergrounds that she would have to confess the extent of her relationship with her maestro. But how could he ever believe her once she claimed it was never a thing of romance? The story she was about to tell him was one she had never dared share with another soul. The thought alone made her belly flutter with nerves.

She crossed the room and eased down onto the edge of their bed. She placed the book down with care beside her, eyes lingering. She pat the spot on her free side, but Raoul shook his head and crossed his arms. "I'm fine standing. And please, remove your mask." Christine's head snapped up and was met with a critical glare. "I do not trust its cover. I fear it has been so easy for you to lie with it in place. It hides your eyes."

Christine's throat closed, lips dried. Still she reached behind her head under a veil of hair to untie the strings. She lowered the mask from her face, fought back the stubborn tears that burned behind her eyes . She noticed the small falter in Raoul's glare, a flicker of pity and grief, before he nodded.

"It began three years ago," Christine began. Memories, faint and dark, began to come alive behind her eyelids. "Father had just passed, only two months prior. As per his dying wish I was accepted into the ballet corps at the Populaire. But more than anything I stayed away." She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat with no avail.

"The shared room of the corps was too public, so instead I brought my sorrows to the attics, where they kept props from years ago. I could not bare the thought of one of the other girls seeing me in such a state, I feared their pity. So I would stay there for hours, watching over rehearsals and looking out to the streets far below. I would waste the days wallowed in my solitude. But one night, when I couldn't sleep, I crept to the stage and did the only thing that felt right anymore: I sang." Chills ran down her arms, something low in her heart fluttered. "I'm unsure how long I sang before I realized someone was watching me.

"It was a set of eyes, two tiny dots of what seemed like starlight coming from one of the boxes. It was completely dark, I could not make out a figure. So I was convinced it was my angel of music. Father had finally sent him to me, as promised. Before I could reach out, ask if it could be true, the two dots disappeared into the shadows. But something told me that I would see him again."

"So this was the Phantom?"

Christine nodded. "But I didn't know it at the time," she explained. "And when I returned the next night, gave my soul to the music that I recited, the voice that spoke back to me was nothing short of ethereal." The sound, so heavenly and hypnotic, rang in her mind like distant bells. _Bravi, bravi._

"I was wholly convinced then. He praised my voice, untrained as it was. He offered me lessons each night, in the attics where I hid. I would return to rehearsals with the ballet, and join the voice at night. Every night he would come to me, and it was not long before I began to notice the changes. But it was not singing alone that he aided me with.

"One night he had asked me how I knew of the Swedish aria I had sung the first night on the stage. And I lost myself. I confided in him all of the months I had spent by my dying father's side, and the time since spent wondering what was left for me in this world. I began to cry, confessed to the pain I had been through. And without saying anything, he began to sing."

As soon as the first tears slipped she shivered and finally felt like she could breathe again. The words slipped past her tongue without thought as she looked up to Raoul, praying he could understand. "He sang to me a Swedish lullaby, the very same one my father had sung to me on so many stormy nights. His voice soothed me, eased my pain and filled an empty and aching place in my heart that my father had once kept. It was a comfort I had never before known. I fell asleep right in the attic and awoke the next morning in my own bed. That night, somewhere within my mind, I realized he was only a man. A man that knew of pain that I could never experience, for he was able to save me from mine without words. Only his heartbreaking music."

Raoul's brows pinched and he shifted his weight. "Did it not alarm you that some man you did not know was expecting your company each night?"

"Of course it did," Christine said. "But you must understand. He did not ask anything of me other than my voice and my dedication to lessons. I knew that somehow, teaching me and witnessing my progress was beneficial to him. Not in any form of vanity or pride, but in mind and soul. I never feared the man himself, just the strangely godlike presence, the uncertainty of whether he could truly be human with how heavenly his voice was. It was fear of the unknown, the lack of a face to put with the presence."

There were times when Christine wished this had remained, that the truth had never been uncovered. She often thought the Phantom a fool for giving in to his desires, for ruining the comfortable and delicate relationship they had formed. There were nights when she poured her soul and sorrows to him and he had responded with such calming words, such concern and love. She wondered if she could ever again have that with the man.

"After a year I had earned my own dressing room. I worried that my angel would be unable to find where I now stayed, but during my second night there he came to me." Christine remembered that night with stunning clarity, his voice had been so eerily clear in its intimate murmur. It had sent chills up her spine and made her heart beat wildly. "Our lessons continued. For the two years after."

She looked up to her fiance in desperation, terrified by the look he was giving her. "It is so impossible to describe, Raoul. But he saved me, so many times. He saved me from my grief and misery when no one else was there-"

"When I was not there."

Christine hesitated and broke her gaze. "Yes," she said lowly, almost ashamed. "When you were not there." She glanced to the journal beside her, brimming from end to end now with dozens of moments she shared with her former angel, some only glimpses in her mind, others spells that stole her away for hours.

Before Raoul had returned to Paris, she had never seen the animal that had been revealed of Erik. It had only been a sweet, respectful shadow of a man whose story she never came to know. Every approach to her had been carefully chosen, tailored to flatter and worship her. Yes, he had his moments. He would occasionally lose patience and snap, or sulk in silence as she rehearsed for hours. A hint of the imperfections that lay within him. But the moments were always recovered with sincere and rushed apologies, praise and renewed patience. She was willing to look past his flaws. It occurred to her dozens of times in those three years that she knew next to nothing about this strange man, that she did not even have a name, but none of it mattered. There was a person in the world that adored her and had breathed steady life back into her lungs through music.

"Raoul, I know you will never understand, but never did he mean to hurt me. He is imperfect, manipulative and twisted but above all he is broken. He has known more tragedies in his life than one could ever imagine. He was killing himself down there. He lost his will to live because he lost me. I could not allow someone to die because of me."

"Do you not see?" Raoul hissed. His hands curled to tight fists at his side. "He only wants you to believe this because he knows you have a weakness for your shared history. He's mad!"

"Do not mistake my sympathy for weakness," The soprano warned, voice steeling over in a sudden, creeping anger.

"He's trying to lure you into his traps once more, and he's succeeding."

"You did not see him!" She shot to her feet and into his space. "When I first found him, he apologized to me. With the most sincerity I have ever seen. Because he was certain he was to die, and he wish to truly repent. There is nothing he regrets more than what he has done to us."

"Then why entertain it?" Raoul's voice raised, pushing past reason. "Why won't you just let him die?!"

"Because he is the only one who might understand me!"

Raoul recoiled, mouth falling open.

Christine broke; she knew she had crossed a line she meant to avoid. Her long-hidden secret, ever since the first moment when she saw her new face. But it was the only way that any of this might make sense to the vicomte.

Christine gestured wildly to her face, frantic and fuming. "You will never be able to understand what it is like to have this for your remaining life! You cannot even begin to fathom the anguish and self loathing that springs from these scars. The only person in this entire world who might is him. He has lived an entire life with a mask covering his face." Angry, hot tears streamed down her face as she continued delving deeper into her motives, spilling it all out in hopes that Raoul would accept it. "I ran into that fire in hopes of saving him. I'll be damned if I don't, now that I have been given the chance. It is all I have left to live for."

Raoul's features twisted into disgust and betrayal. "You ran in for him?" Christine's heart pounded in her chest. She struggled for words, her mouth opening and closing, but Raoul cut her off. "You were going back to him even before you were burned! What could he offer you then? Have you lied this entire time?"

"He was my teacher!" She cried. "I just confessed to all he's done for me, and you still do not understand? How could I sit by while he was destroyed, after all he's given to me?"

Raoul froze out of nowhere, his glare imposing and unsteady. His breathing was short and shallow. She had never seen him so disheveled and troubled.

"So he can offer you things that I cannot."

Christine's breath hitched in her throat. He left no room for debate in his tone. Before she could stop herself, she breathed out a silent "yes."

So that was the truth all along, hidden in plain view in front of her. Raoul offered her sanctuary and safety from her fears and afflictions. Erik embraced them, guided her through them. Raoul was a picture of perfection that she could hide behind, rely on. Erik was a gamble and a project, a chance to prove to herself that she did not need a crutch. Whatever complicated feelings she might have once had for Erik or any current love for Raoul did not matter. What mattered was who called to her the most, who always had. Was it time to give in, to admit it to herself?

Raoul's eyes watered and his lips trembled with words he could not form. He took one step towards her; a tear of his own fell quickly down the smooth plain of his cheek. "Can I ever give you what you need? What you want? Could I ever be enough?"

Christine's head dropped as she fought back her tears. Still they fell without mercy, tracing her mottled cheeks. She sobbed as she shook her head. No, he could not. She somehow knew all along, since the moment she decided to run into that damned fire. Her heart had broken for Erik, and Raoul could not mend it. Nor could his beautiful home, his wonderful family and his endless affections. Her soul obeyed her angel, called to the man that came along with him.

Her knees gave out and she fell to the bed, choking on sobs as she covered her face. After a few insufferable moments, the bed dipped beside her and strong, familiar arms wrapped around her quivering form. She gave in to his embrace, falling onto his chest and hiding from what she had just confessed. She felt shaking lips press into her hair before smoothing it back. She heard him sigh, sniffle and choke back his own emotion. Neither said anything for a long time, simply took in all they could of each other while they still could. Christine knew somewhere in the back of her mind that it would always end like this, that they were not meant to be. But nothing could prepare her for the pain it would bring.

"I'm so sorry," Christine whispered, clutching the fabric of his shirt. "I didn't think - I'm so sorry."

Raoul shook his head. "Please Christine," he sighed. "Never apologize for circumstances you cannot control. I cannot make you love me."

Christine looked up, breaths shortening with panic. "But I do love you, Raoul. I love you so much-"

Raoul held up a hand. He pursed his lips and his eyes, so tired and dark, softened with sadness. He seemed almost relieved, though, to know the truth. He must have been unsure of their love as much as she had been. Though he wanted them to live together happily, something must have told him that one day it would all fall apart. "I love you too, Christine. I always will. But we speak of two different kinds of love." His hand dropped to hers and he took it, the normal ease of the manner replaced with uncertainty. He looked down to their hands as if he believed it would never happen again. "We can no longer play at games. I am not what you need. And unlike him, I refuse to sacrifice your happiness for my benefit."

Christine bristled at the way he slipped in the accusation, but kept it to herself. He had earned the meaningless jab. He deserved a million more. She watched helplessly as he lifted her knuckles to his lips, kissing them with such tender, heart-wrenching adoration. His free hand swept up to cradle the side of her face, fingers brushing along the uneven curves that cursed her cheeks and under her eyes. He leaned in and their lips brushed before he caved, utterly devouring her. The soprano sighed and succumbed to the pressure, allowing him to take one last indulgence. Part of her hoped that she could have played along, be convinced that this was what she wanted for the rest of her life. But as her hands skidded along his arms, across the expanse of his back, she knew it was not right.

After some time Raoul broke their kiss, breath short and eyes still shut tight. His voice was thick with emotion when he murmured, "I think it would be best if you gather some necessities for a few days and leave." His Adam's apple bobbed. "I've reached out to the Giry's - if you choose to go there you are welcome."

Christine choked on one last sob as she nodded. Raoul left her to gather what she could in a suitcase for a few days before she could arrange something more solid. Each skirt she plucked from her dresser, each bodice and toiletry, carried the weight of thousands of hours wasted away on false hopes and naive dreams. She felt the remains of her domestic, peaceful existence as a to-be vicomtesse slip out of reach.

Each step down those immaculate stairs exhausted her. Raoul waited at the opened door; a carriage waited in the driveway like a looming hearse. So it is really happening, she thought. I'm leaving. Almost a year after Raoul had returned, nearly six months of calling this beautiful mansion home, all buried in the past the moment she stepped into that carriage. Raoul's face - even the way he held the door open, was riddled with dejection. Never did she wish for him to suffer so much.

But what was she expecting to happen?

She exited the house and handed her two bags to the coachman, turned to the vicomte once more. She eased the engagement ring off of her finger, sliding easily and catching the dim light with one last wink. She handed it back to the man in a motion all-too familiar. He took it gingerly, turning it over in his palm in a pregnant silence. He looked back up, something knowing stirring in his eyes. "You will not end up with the Giry's tonight, will you?"

A faint blush born from shame bloomed under the mask she had replaced. She shook her head and offered a tiny smile. "No."

A small smile of his own cracked his lips, one that carried sorrow behind its facade. "I thought not." He took her hands in his so tenderly she thought her heart might break all over again. "Please, my love. Be careful."

"I will. You have my word."

A short kiss on her forehead and Raoul sent her off. She watched with a heavy heart as her former lover backed up the entrance stairs. He stayed outside with his hands down at his side limply, staring off in the direction of the carriage. Somehow, even from the winding distance all the way to the end of the driveway, she could feel his mournful eyes on her.


	9. Chapter 9

(A/N: Hey guys, I'm so sorry for how long this took to publish. I've had a very busy few weeks and could barely find any time. Updates should be more frequent here on out. Thanks, much love!)

 **Chapter 9**

 **Guest**

Erik looked up from the book spread in his lap at the faint echo of footsteps outside of his lair. The light tap of a pair of boots sounded familiar, but there was no way it could be her. Surely she would not return after the disaster of that day…?

He eased from his bed with a light wince - some wounds still sore and unwilling - and pulled on his robe. He snatched his new mask from his nightstand, cracked the door and saw among the sea of darkness a steady stream of candlelight from the room next to his. He pushed the guest-room door open, greeted with the sight of a familiar silhouette sorting things atop the spare bed. Her wild hair caught the edges of the light with a gentle glow, the soft curves of her waist outlined against the shadows.

"Christine?"

The woman spun on her heels with wide eyes, just barely visible under the shadows of her mask. Her lips parted as if to form words, but none came to her. The portion of her face below her mask was starkly pink and irritated compared to the flawless clay above it; dried streams of tears caught the light and traced down to her chin like trails of gold leaf.

"Christine, is everything alright?" Worry riddled Erik's visible features. He had never seen her in such distress, not since… he could not bring himself to think about that. He was in front of her within two swift strides; a glance behind her showed a suitcase overflowing with clothes and toiletries. He lifted a cautious hand to graze the hair away from her face. Lithe fingers ghosted across her cheek, the soft slope of her jaw.

Her beautiful lips quivered and she looked up to him, eyes shining in the weak light. She leaned just slightly into his cool touch. "Can I stay here for the night?" she whimpered.

Erik's eyes instantly softened and his head tilted just so. He wanted to rejoice, to bask in his small victory, but the utter exhaustion and desolation in her eyes kept him at bay. "Of course you can, my dear," he answered softly. His voice, so gentle and melodic, was a caress in Christine's whirlwind of a mind.

Before he could prepare himself, Christine ducked between his arms and hid in his chest. The breath rushed from his lungs and his arms froze in mid air. Her hands came up behind him to grasp tightly to his back; his skin was set aflame in every inch that she touched. With shaking hands, as if he wondered if he was allowed to, he brought his arms around her. One hand ghosted over the small of her back, the other just above the back of her head. He finally caved and pulled her tight to him. He was intoxicated by all of her, her scent, her touch, her. He smoothed down the curls of the girl's magnificent hair, committed their sweet softness to memory.

The jump of her shoulders and the muffled sobs that came from her snapped him out of his selfish moment and he ran his other hand along the line of her back to calm her hitching breaths. With gentle pressure he pushed her back by her shoulders, his thumbs running along the silk of her cloak. She sniffed and looked up to him, desperate for guidance, comfort. There was so much shadowing her eyes, once bright and hopeful. Now all he could see was overwhelming tiredness.

"I need a drink," she said.

Without another word Erik led her to the makeshift lounge, where she plopped down on the chaise. He began opening and closing the few cabinets that still had doors, pushing various bottles to the side. "Nadir brought some liquor down, unsurprisingly, but there doesn't appear to be anything...light."

Christine waved him off. "I don't care," she assured him.

She caught her maestro's look of mild surprise before he quickly corrected himself. He grabbed the only surviving two glasses and poured a splash of whiskey into each. "I'll bring the bottle," he muttered to himself. He joined her on the sofa, passed her a glass. She tossed the golden-colored liquor back without so much as a cringe. Despite the immediate shock at seeing such a petite little thing knock back hard liquor with no regret, Erik couldn't say he was surprised. His student was always a little spitfire. He sipped at his own, holding back his wince at the burn in his throat.

"I'm truly sorry for intruding on you," Christine said, pouring herself another sip. "I know you value your privacy - especially now that you've healed so much." She looked around absently at the meek home, at the tight bay and the shadows of the lake beyond the candlelight.

"You know I do not mind," Erik said, passing her a look that she caught from the corner of her eye. He hesitated, swishing the whiskey in his glass in the tense silence. "I only wonder… I would like to know what happened.."

Christine faltered, still unable to look at him. Her eyes settled on nothing in the distance, vision fogging with tears that began to burn at the back of her mind. She pushed back the lump in her throat with another taste of whiskey, sharp on her tongue. She risked a sidelong glance at him and mumbled, "New mask looks good-"

A bony hand, cool against the flushed skin of her own, pulled her from her rambling. "Christine," his voice floated to her like silk in the looming air. "Please."

She blinked once, pretended not to notice the tear that escaped from the corner of her eye. "I believe I ended my engagement tonight."

Erik's eyes flitted to her finger, free of a ring. He would have been overjoyed if his Christine was not on the verge of another breakdown by his side. She sniffed, suddenly seemingly fascinated by the drink in her glass. "Him and I spent some time talking about all that had happened. I confessed to him, all of it."

"All of what?"

"The lessons," she answered. "The endless nights, all these years. Times when he was not there, times he could never understand." She risked a glance up to him through glassy eyes. He thought he might melt at the sight; it still felt so foreign, so undeserved. "Times that I would not have survived without you," She confessed.

Erik shuddered at her gentle words, hardly able to believe what he heard. Perhaps he was delusional after all. The memories had not faded from his mind, those hundreds of nights crystal clear. She was not the only to reveal her soul on those nights; her eagerness to learn and her achingly honest talks spurred from him the most vulnerable ranges of his thoughts, expressed solely through song and praise. But to know that they had changed Christine as well, to know he was not the only one who was soothed and saved so many nights in the attics, the dressing rooms…

But what was he supposed to do with this information? What was she trying to get at? He cursed himself for hopeless stupidity. He had to pull himself from those eyes, he felt he might implode under their sudden weight. "I-" he cleared his throat, cursed himself for sounding so scared. "I'm sorry about the vicomte."

He might not have meant it entirely, but he was sorry that he had to see his Christine so heartbroken. As much as he wished to pin it on the insufferable boy, he knew that would not be fair to her. If anything, he was the one to blame, continuously meddling in her affairs even when she had begged him not to.

Christine pulled her hand out from beneath his and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Don't be," she muttered, sipping a bit more carefully at her drink. "Part of me knew that it would come to this." When he said nothing, she elaborated with a short sigh. "Raoul and I are two different types of people," she said. "He is confident, sturdy and perfect in every form. I… am not."

Erik feared that what she referred to had something to do with her mask. His head was a swarm of ideas and thoughts of what it could be, and he didn't trust its presence for a single moment.

"He strived for stability," she continued, "and loathed change. He could live his life as a repeat of the same exact day forever and be content." Her eyes lightened, and she fell into a nostalgic daze. "I grew up traveling from city to city with my father, hiking through countries and sailing across seas. To stay too long in one place, to live with such promise through each day of my life… it would drive me mad."

"You're a wanderer." Erik's voice, soft as he spoke, echoed down the length of the tunnels.

Christine snorted. "A classic vagabond," she joked. She shook her head, resting it in her free hand. "What kind of woman runs away the moment she is promised security? I must be mad…."

Erik shook his head sharply, a finger sneaking beneath her jaw and tilting her chin up. "Not mad, Christine," he assured her. "You're a woman who will not be satisfied until she is guaranteed she has seen it all. It's admirable." The edges of his fingers drifted along her jaw with skittering movement; he was still so hesitant, so unconvinced that he should even be able to touch such pure flesh without his skin burning away. He cupped her face, and to his astonishment, she leaned into his featherlight touch.

Christine's eyes drifted shut at his voice, words of silken tone. Exactly as he always did to ease her pain. "How do you know," she sighed, "how to ease my thoughts no matter the circumstance?"

Erik's lips curled, his thumb smoothing across the clay of her mask. "I've had plenty of practice."

Despite most of her face being covered she could somehow feel his gentle touch through her mask. It never mattered who it was who touched her face: the doctors, the craftsmen, or even Raoul. She always flinched and drew away, terrified that they would suddenly dip their fingers and rip away her cover. But she trusted Erik somehow more than she trusted Raoul. Just earlier that night Raoul had made her remove her mask, how was she to believe that he wouldn't take it from her if she hadn't cooperated? But even with as little as she knew her mentor, she knew that he understood the horror of being unmasked. Even if he never came to understand the reason she wore it, she trusted that he would never steal it from her. Such a shallow, unspoken promise, but it was enough.

"You look tired, Christine," The Phantom near-whispered. Her eyes were still closed, the tension in her lips easing away at the first hints of exhaustion.

Christine nodded and sluggishly opened her eyes. "I can't recall ever being this tired," she admitted.

Erik stood at once and offered a hand. "Come then," he coaxed. "Call it a night, start tomorrow well rested. You need it."

Christine glanced to his outstretched hand, her heart skittering. She hadn't stopped to wonder what Erik would make of all of this, if he would see this as an invitation for new intimacy. Something low in her gut pooled and stirred with anxiety. "Maestro..." Her voice trembled just slightly. "I'm not - I can't-"

Suddenly she was flung into the past, when a dark, looming shadow of a man had emerged from behind her mirror with a waiting hand. The man - her false angel - had led her with that hand into his secret world that he planned to share with her. It was her accepting him that first faithful night that started it all. What would it mean if she were to accept him on this night?

The Phantom stretched his fingers, leaning in just enough to draw her from her trance. "Christine," he hummed. That voice, she swore it would be the death of her. "Please, my dear," he pushed. "You need rest. I promise you no harm will come to you as long as you are with me."

Christine believed him, but more than anything she trusted him. She could never have imagined she could say that about him ever again. It was a revelation that caressed its way into her muscles, relieving their tension. It laced through her bones, through each warped thought in her shattered mind.

It was peace, she realized. She had forgotten that cherished feeling.

She let her hand fall into his with such familiarity, an effortless comfort. The tight lines in the exposed half of his face softened; if the soprano did not know better she would think there was a ghost of a smile on his lips.

He led her to the spare room, insisted she change while he found some fresh sheets. She watched awkwardly while he made the bed for her, a gesture that seemed so out of character for him. The Phantom of the Opera, who terrorized Parisians and smashed away at organs in the dead of night, was struggling to get a pillowcase on. Christine couldn't help but chuckle at the way he muttered as he flopped the pillow against his chest, cursing it. There were few occasions where her maestro's humor had gotten her to giggle during trying times, just enough to lighten the darkness in her eyes. It was a rare, dry quip here and there, but it never failed.

Erik finally seemed content with the setup after grumbling about how he wished he was more prepared, but Christine politely insisted that it was more than enough. There was unspoken tension in the air that hung between them. How exactly did one end the night of such an unexpected reunion?

As Erik was about to simply bail and hope for the best, her soft and timid voice nailed him to the spot. He glanced back and saw his dear Christine standing with her hands clutched in front of her chest, nervously picking at her nails. She looked up to him from beneath sleepy eyelids, clearly struggling to communicate something to him.

"Can you please sing for me? Like before?"

Erik drew in a sharp breath. He stammered, searching for some form of an answer. "I… are you sure?"

She nodded, pushing away her fears. "I won't sleep tonight without it."

Without you, a hidden voice whispered in the back of her thoughts.

Erik swallowed, looked her over once more before nodding. He turned on his heel and left the room to prepare. Christine took the opportunity to snuff the candelabras in the corners, engulfing the room in a safe darkness. She slipped under the fresh blankets and glanced once to the doorway before removing her mask. She placed it gingerly on the nightstand.

Erik's silhouette took up the doorway for a moment as he spotted the mask on the nightstand. Christine had turned away, the only visible part of her being her chocolate curls and the dip of her waist draped in blankets. He moved further into the room with the lightest, most cautious steps. Froze in place when she spoke with tension:

"No closer, please."

Erik held back his disappointment, hoping to sit at the edge of her bed to balance the guitar he held. But he didn't want to overstep these careful boundaries. He had already been given so much that night.

He took to the floor instead, folding his legs in an almost childlike pose. The position strained his still-sore wounds, his bony knees jutted out to either side of him, but it would have to work. He positioned the guitar in the gap of his lap and plucked a few strings to establish a key. The sound resonated in the air with a practiced, calming chill. Colors began to bloom behind his eyes at each new note that flowed effortlessly from his fingers. He warped the instrument to obey him and his music, a lullaby she was sure to remember.

The moment the first words drifted through the air to her, Christine's eyes screwed tight and a small gasp escaped her lips. At the next phrase, she sighed. She felt all the tension and sorrow from the day leak from her body, pulled by Erik's voice as if it were tied to the end of a string. He continued despite her reaction, letting the somber and gentle notes travel from his bloated lips to the deepest crevices of her mind.

It took only one soft song before the man heard Christine's breaths even and slow. He stood as carefully as possible with his fingers clenched tightly against the strings to stifle any sound. His eyes never left her form.

Oh, how he missed this. Seeing his dear Christine so close, so at peace. He felt as though he knew this form of her best: asleep in his underground lairs, all secrets shed away and the tension released from her shoulders. Even if he could not see her face from this angle, he saw enough. Those slight curves of her dancer's form, the cascade of dark, wild locks that fanned across the pillows.

His heart had not healed from the night of Don Juan. He still ached and loathed and felt such overwhelming regret. But Christine…. she was a lone star in the overwhelming darkness of his life. And she had come back. She was the single torch left alive in a desolate, dark theatre. Guiding his way.

He looked back to her sleeping shape once more as he closed the door, wiped at the lone tear that had slipped from his eye. For the first time he could ever recall, it was not one born from hatred and misery.

"Goodnight, Christine."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

 **Questions**

A sweet, warm aroma woke Christine the next morning… if it was morning. There was no way to tell the time below in the dungeons, and she felt much too rested to have just slept a few hours. She carefully dotted the sleep from her eyes, wincing at the tender flesh that burned to the touch. She sighed and fell back into her pillow, muttering a few curses in her native Swedish. In all her hysteria the night before, she forgot to apply her creams. That, combined with the strain from what felt like hundreds of tears from the day before, left her face throbbing. In fact, somehow everything in her face hurt. Her warped eyelids, her cheeks, forehead, her jaw… she forgot how painful crying can be.

She forced herself from the blissful warmth beneath the blankets and rummaged through her scattered belongings. She hissed quietly at the pressure on irritated flesh as she pulled her mask on. She scooped up the two bottles of ointment, cracked the door open. Erik was busy in the kitchen with some type of breakfast food that made her belly practically roar. The sound caught his attention, much to Christine's horror. He watched in silence as she offered a meek smile and tiptoed off to the washroom.

He noted the two small bottles in her hand, despite her trying to hide them in the sleeve of her nightgown. They appeared, to him, all too medical in their appearance. He was too familiar with that type of packaging. His eyes trailed her path, even after she shut the washroom door. His brow furrowed, skin pushing against his new mask. She had been wearing her mask again.

Just woke up and already wearing it?

There was only so far he could buy her "sense of security" claim. If it were a byproduct of trauma then he was to blame, and the thought alone riddled him with dread. What was worse, however, was not being certain if that was the truth.

What exactly was lurking beneath that mask? Was this that morbid, burning curiosity that the rest of the world felt when they looked upon him?

At the first sound of the door opening his head swiveled back to the food in front of him. Christine ignored it, instead opted for saying good morning.

"Good afternoon, actually," he replied. She had slept most of the day away, she undoubtedly needed it. Something about her feeling comfortable enough in his home to sleep for hours on end made him feel an undeniable sense of pride.

She gawked at the back of his head. "Did you say afternoon?"

The man nodded. "Just past noon, if my watch is wound properly." He was holding two dishes when he turned on his heel, passing her to set them on the makeshift table. The legs wobbled just slightly from the new weight, but it held up. He would need to do some more thorough repairs now that he was up and walking around. "French toast," he announced. He set out a small cup of syrup next to what he deemed to be her plate, along with two glasses of fresh juice. A slab of soft butter, a pinch of powdered sugar over each plate.

Christine shook her head, quietly chuckling. "You remembered." Her favorite breakfast dish.

"Of course." He pulled the seat out for her. "Eat, please." He took his seat across from her, passed her the syrup and butter before taking some for himself.

She chose not to mention the fact that he was now eating with her of his own choice. Sure, he still covered his mouth with his napkin, averted his gaze with each lopsided bite, but still. She hid her smile with another bite.

Unsatisfied with the silence, he cleared his throat. If they were to coexist, he supposed he needed to sort a few factors out. She looked up to him, eyes expectant behind their cover. Erik toyed with his food as he began to speak, avoiding her gaze. "How long exactly do you plan on staying?"

Christine slowed, blinking. "I'm, I-" she cleared her throat. "I am unsure. I could go to the Giry's if it bothers you."

Erik rushed to recover. "I did not mean for it to come across that way," he assured her. "You may stay as long as you wish. I simply wish to know so I can make appropriate..." He gestured to the makeshift table, the broken furniture around them, "accomodations."

She shook her head. "Please, maestro. This is fine. It is a roof over my head, I haven't been so fortunate at other times."

The man said nothing, instead occupied himself with eating. A few moments passed in tense silence before Christine's eyes began to wander around the meek dwellings. The more she saw behind the lavish embellishments, the more she realized the true nature of the home he had made. It had been a home once, but the swooping candelabras and drapes of velvet cloth were a facade to hide the fact that beneath it all, it was in fact still a dungeon. It almost felt like an ironic metaphor for the man who lived there.

"How long have you been here?" she asked.

The Phantom froze, staring down at his plate. Here it comes.

"I've been living beneath the opera house for five years," he answered quietly.

Five years. Christine had never lived in one place for more than her three years at the Populaire. She could not imagine being settled in one place for any longer than that, especially a place as dismal and lonesome as the dungeons.

Christine trailed away, twirled her fork against her plate. "I cannot help but feel uneasy about how little I truly know of you."

Erik tilted his head and hummed low in his throat. "Trust me, you know enough."

She set down her fork. "Like what?"

"You know my name and my biggest secret." He gestured blandly to his mask. "Is that not enough to be satisfied?"

"No," Christine sighed. When the man's dark eyes flicked up to her and were met with a warm gaze. "You are more than your face," she said. "You know so much about me but I've yet to learn a single thing about you after three years." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "If we are to live together, however long it may be, I would feel better if I knew who I was living with."

He remained silent, lips drawn tight, but gave a short nod. "Very well," he muttered. "But for every question you ask me, I have the right to one of my own. This is non-negotiable."

Christine pursed her lips but caved. "Fine. What is your last name?"

Of course she chose that as the first question. Erik had to refrain from acting out in frustration. She waited expectantly, watching as the waves of discomfort passed through his features. "I do not know," he eventually answered, near silent. "My mother never found my father, and she refused to tell me hers. She… she did not want me to have any ties to her."

Christine's cheeriness faltered, she lowered her fork and stared absently at the distance between them, which seemed to only grow. She feared that all the questions she had prepared overtime for him would only be increasingly painful to hear.

"Do you have a question for me?"

Erik furrowed his brow and rested his chin against his knuckles. At once his question dawned on him and he leaned back in his seat. "What is your favorite flower?"

Christine's head lifted; Erik could not see her puzzled reaction behind her mask but he was sure it was there. "I'm sorry?"

"Your favorite flower," he repeated. "I should like to know."

She contained a small giggle and instead mulled over the question for a moment. "Daisies, I think. Or daffodils. I can't decide."

Her maestro nodded slowly. She was unsure what she thought of that little dark gleam in his eyes. He took a bite of his toast, nearly finished.

"What did you do before you were here?" She asked next.

Erik froze in place for a moment, unsure how much he wanted to reveal to her. "I -" he hummed low in his throat, trying to figure out exactly what he wanted to say. "I spent some time in Persia," he answered. "I worked for the Shah as a personal musician and architect."

"Is that how you met the Daroga?"

Erik's eyebrow quirked up. "That's a separate question."

Christine deadpanned. "Are you really going to count that?"

Erik contained a tiny smile as he cut the remains of his toast. "The questions are racking up," he teased.

Christine huffed and crossed her arms. "Fine. Your turn."

Erik took a moment again to think. "Besides music, what is a favorite pastime of yours?"

Christine's lips lifted in an easy smile that never ceased to take his breath away. "I love to paint," she answered. "My father bought me a paint set for my fifth birthday, I still have the brushes."

The eye that Christine could see widened and the man opposite of her stood slowly. "May I show you something?" His voice spoke of poorly concealed giddiness. Naturally curious, she followed him.

He led her to his bedroom, where he pulled open the only drawer of his dresser still in tact. He pushed his clothing aside and pulled out a large canvas, holding it out to Christine. She took it and her eyes widened. She gasped softly as she took in the painting he presented to her, running her fingers over the small scrapes and grooves from dried oil paints. She looked to Erik, who quietly waited for a reaction with the tiniest smirk of pride.

"Did you paint this?" She asked, voice raising in shock.

"It was a project of a few weeks, but I finished it just in time for the winter. Can't very well paint from reference when the reference is coated in snow."

The soprano took in each detail, each drag of brush and cut of palette knife that created an intricate view of Paris from atop the Populaire. The meandering streets, the glittering Seine, the shining tops of hundreds of buildings under a blossom-pink sky adorned with streaks of gold leaf and brilliant vermilion. It was single-handedly one of the most breathtaking and unique pieces of art she had ever seen.

"Erik, this-" she laughed breathily, shaking her head in shock. "I shouldn't be surprised, of course you can paint. There isn't a thing you can't do."

"Trust me, there is plenty I can never dream of doing. I'm simply fortunate enough to have access to art supplies." He took the piece from her, gingerly running his fingers across the surface. "However, I was unable to find varnish."

They crossed back to the kitchen and as Christine reached for her plate to bring to the sink, Erik snuck behind her and took it. She rolled her eyes, but had a smile on her face nonetheless. When he turned back to retrieve his own, he was greeted by the petite woman holding it out for him with a smug smirk. Erik clicked his tongue disapprovingly but took it nonetheless.

"You don't have to do anything while you are here," he reminded her. "You are my guest. You need not lift a finger."

Christine busied herself with clearing the table, waving off an exasperated Phantom. "It is the least I can do," she said. "Besides, am I not more than a guest here, after all we have been through?"

Erik stiffened. Such a loaded statement, what was she implying? The line of what they were was already so blurred; he could hardly believe she thought of them as friends, and as far as he knew, friends don't live together. It was no surprise that he was no good with social cues like these.

Erik instead busied himself at the sink, hoping to escape the topic. "I believe you're due for a question," he said lowly.

"How did you come to live beneath the opera house?" She glanced carefully to him, aware she was is in dangerous territory. "I know why you believe you're confined to here, but of all places in Paris, how did you learn of secret tunnels beneath the Populaire? I had never heard of them before you brought me here."

"The simple answer is Madame Giry," he said. "She knew me from my time in the circus. She was kind enough to direct me to somewhere I would be safe, once I ventured back from Persia."

Christine had stopped listening after "circus". She remembered hearing Raoul mutter the words "circus freak" under his breath a few times in the rare occasion of Erik being mentioned. She always just assumed it was his way of degrading his rival; never did she suspect it was literal.

"What's my next question?" She pushed, watching him carefully from behind. She knew exactly what her next question for him would be and wanted to get to it as soon as possible.

Once again he pondered as he scrubbed at dishes. "Favorite instrument?"

Without a moment's hesitation she answered "Cello."

Erik peeked back at her from over his shoulder. "Really."

She nodded, eyes bright. "I love the violin of course, but my father taught me an appreciation for the lows. It's so rich and dark - the rare occasion when I hear it solo is such a privilege."

"I used to play cello," Erik mused. "Not much, just enough to play basic sonatas and orchestral spreads. A lovely sound though." His lips teased a small, near-nervous smile as he looked back once more to an expectant Christine. "Now I wish I had concentrated more on it."

"Is it my turn?"

Erik's brow pinched. "Eager are we?" He set the last dish aside and turned to her. "Fine. Since you obviously are burning to know."

"What did you do in the circus?" She nearly cut him off as the words raced from her mouth.

Erik visibly tensed and Christine watched as his face tightened in a manner too familiar. All trace of life instantly dimmed and fled from his eyes as they were replaced with a dark, unknown emotion that spoke of endless haunts. She wished she could pull the words back into her mouth.

Just as she was about to assure him that he did not need to answer, he began to speak in a stiff, grave tone. "My time in the circus...it was complicated. It is hard to remember that time with positivity. For a number of years I was kept as a human oddity."

She stammered, all wonder and curiosity instantly snuffed out. If he could be considered an "oddity", then by that logic so could she, very easily. A chill seeped down her spine at the thought. At that moment, all she could manage was a pathetic "I'm sorry."

Erik was quiet a moment before he uttered, "Don't worry." He drained the sink and turned back to her, offered her the most convincing smile he could manage at that point. "There were good things that came along with it - though I would prefer if we paused our questions game for now." His face, despite him trying to portray strength, revealed something crossed between pain, trauma and even nostalgia. It was too much for Christine to process.

"Of course," she answered instantly. After a moment's pause she crossed to her room and grabbed her cloak, pinned it across her collar. "I'm, uh, I'm going to the market to fetch some things, is there anything you need?" She couldn't stand to be with him at that moment, seeing how upset she had made him. She couldn't help but feel a horrible guilt.

Erik had sat down again at the table, one arm rested on it with the sleeve rolled back just past the wrist. From her angle she could see those tattoos again, dark and twisted in organic forms beneath his pale skin. He studied them closely, that unusual look once more betraying his eyes. Christine thought that there must be a correlation between the tattoos and the fair. She didn't dare ask - not right now.

"I'm fine," he answered. One finger twitched against the table. "I was planning on running my own errands later tonight."

"Remember what Daroga said," Christine scolded lightly. "No traveling past the lake for another week. You've barely given yourself time to heal."

She did not get an answer from him. Just an unbearable silence. The distance between them felt as though it grew each time Christine attempted to learn more about him, along with his misery. Was there truly nothing he could consider happiness in his life? She made haste when she left through the back, unable to take the silence and unsure how to fix it.

Christine spent most of the day wandering Paris without purpose. She ate at a favorite hole-in-the-wall cafe of hers, visited different shops aimlessly, ended the night by visiting her father's grave. By the time she came back to the lair, bag in her hand, she was exhausted. Erik was nowhere to be found and his door was shut. Light seeped from beneath his door, however, and a quiet drag of horse hair across fine strings reassured her that he was still there. She shook her head, she had begun to worry that he had run off, gotten hurt...who knows. Her mind was prone to jumping to the worst conclusions.

She pulled a large, leather-bound pad from the bag and placed it on the table, featherlight. She had noticed that his music sheets had been destroyed and thrown about with abandon, some burnt by the cruel hand of a candle, some torn to shreds. She was unsure if the mob did that or if he did himself. Both seemed equally possible. She couldn't help herself when her eyes fell on the book of blank music sheets. Besides that she placed a small vial of varnish with a small smile of pride.

She didn't bother knocking on his door to let him know she returned - he would have heard her the instant she came back. Instead she decided to retire, maybe even curl up with one of the books he had down there still.

When she struck a match and set it to the first candle of the closest candelabra, her chest bloomed with warmth and a smile took over her face. Atop her nightstand was a large, white vase overflowing with an arrangement of daisies and daffodils. In the dead of winter. Where the hell did he find those? She lifted one daffodil between her fingers to rest in her palm, and brought it to her nose. Her eyes fluttered shut at the faint, lovely scent. Her smile grew even more.


	11. Chapter 11

(A/N: Hey guys, sorry for such the gap between updates. The semester drawing to a close is really kicking my ass. Enjoy this longer chapter, long awaited. Don't forget to comment, I love hearing from all of you!)

.

 **Chapter 11**

 **Scars**

.

"Be still, my beating heart."

It had been nearly two weeks since Christine had "moved in" with Erik; they passed in a quiet, peaceful blur of unmarked time. Now and then she roped him into a vocal lesson, insisting she was fine, she wasn't scared. Other times she contently listened to him play violin for hours, yearning to hear the gloriously eerie organ that still laid in tattered pieces along the wall. It was a simple, domestic existence that reminded her of those calm two weeks that followed her performance in Hannibal. But there was no mystery anymore, no hidden doors and concealed glances. It was simple coexistence.

Still, she never would have expected to see her maestro dressed down in only a robe and some loose pants for lounging.

Erik glanced up from his perch at his makeshift desk, the visible portion of his face warm despite its paleness in the candlelight. His brow quirked upward at the intrusion. Christine leaned comfortably against the doorway of his study, its maroon curtain settling behind her. She had been watching him for a solid minute; for him not to pick up on her presence was quite out of character. He must have been truly lost in his work.

"What is that meant to mean?"

"I don't recall ever seeing you dressed down."

He rolled his eyes, the corner of his lips pulled just slightly. "Of course you have." He turned back to the papers laid out in front of him.

"Maybe shirtsleeves," she said. "Never just a robe." Once again those curious black marks peaked out from a loose velvet sleeve. The dark fabric hung off his bony figure, but she didn't exactly mind. It felt abnormally intimate to see him so bare, not dressed head to foot.

"Surely you do not expect me to don my cape and boat hat in the comfort of my own home," He teased, voice drifting to her like candle smoke.

"I'm not sure what to expect," she admitted. "Is this what life below the ground with the Phantom shall be?"

"No, I do more than compose in my sleep wear." A small scratch, perhaps a breath mark, sounded across the cardstock paper of the sheet book. "However, when I find such tempting gifts I might indulge."

"I'm glad you like it." She couldn't help the smile when she noticed the heap of pages he had already filled and turned with drafts. He must have been dying to compose those past months. She only wondered how he resisted for two weeks. "Is the quality of paper good enough for ink?"

"More than enough," he answered. "Though Christine, you do not have to buy me things. I am content alone with your company."

"Just take the gift and be grateful," she teased. "I'm glad I got them now, after seeing the little garden that bloomed in my room." Despite the flowers being wilted, she hung them to dry and their fragrance still dotted the air by her bed.

One shoulder lifted, slowly fell. "The room needed some life."

Erik paused for a short moment, pen held just above the sheets before him. He promptly turned to face her. "Have I ever shown you my music box?"

Christine's brow furrowed. "The monkey? Yes, many times."

Erik wagged a finger, something devious playing at his features. "No, no, not the monkey. My music box." Completely lost, she offered no answer. He stood and took two confident steps up to her. "Would you like to see the life I live, or the one I desire?"

Partly curious at the proposal, and worried all the same, she hesitated. "What does that entail?"

A small, secretive grin unlike him curved into his full lips; he offered a hand, lithe fingers curled towards her.

He led Christine to the furthest corner of the room, to a desk with a foreign object covered with deep, rich velvet. He pulled the velvet sheet away, revealing a large brass-and-wood contraption with a massive scalloped horn blossoming from its box. An odd contraption, indeed. A thin black plate was rested into a hollow dip in the box. Her curiosity bested her with one glance at Erik's prideful expression. "What is it?" She asked.

"I have not decided on a name yet," he admitted. "Would you like to see how it works?"

At Christine's nod, he began to wind the crank at the side, gaining speed until it began to wind on its own. Christine could hear quiet gears turning and shifting within the box. The disk began to spin slowly; Erik picked up a needle and placed it atop. An abrupt scratch and crackle echoed from the horn before, much to her astonishment, muffled music followed. Erik turned a dial at the side, increasing its volume until each note was clear and resonated in the air around them. She could only stand and listen in awe as the crackling speaker brought a beautiful piano arrangement to life.

"How does it-"

Just as Christine began to speak, she found that her roommate was no longer standing beside her. She whirled, surprised to find that Erik had once again moved with enough stealth that she did not hear him at all. He now stood some paces behind her in the center of the room with an outstretched hand. "Care for a dance?" His brow quirked and he could not help the smirk that pulled at his lips.

She was unsure why, but Christine found herself surprised, and mostly amused, by his proposition. Nonetheless she took the offer, falling perfectly into her role. Any comfort either of them had, however, was snuffed out when she jumped at the hand upon the dip of her lower back. Erik instantly pulled his hand away, startled and feeling much like a fool. Of course he wrongly assumed how to waltz; the man had never had such a partner to dance with.

Their falter was easily recovered by Christine, who merely placed her hand on his shoulder, the other clasped in his. She wore the most beautiful, shy smile, one which restored whatever pathetic amount of confidence Erik had left.

"Have you ever danced before?"

Erik could feel the heat rise to his cheeks as he averted his gaze, pretending to watch the record player. "No one has ever asked me to."

"Not even once?"

He mulled over the question, wondering how much he wished to reveal. "Some, in the traveling fair. Though I would hardly call that display dancing."

She caught the gleam in his eye, that secret wish that he didn't dare reveal. She chuckled before the music began to distort and slow. Erik snuck from her hold, rigorously winding up the box again. Christine took the lead once he returned, guiding his hand back to its place hovering just over the small of her back. His eyes shifted to hers and his jaw tensed. "You're fine," she assured him. "Follow my lead."

A minute or two passed while Erik practically boiled over with nerves at the new stance they had taken on. He assumed the waltz moves correctly, and was able to take over lead afterall. The music dusted through the air around them all the while.

"Did you invent that?" Christine looked sidelong to the music box, at the rhythmic pulse of its handle turning back.

"With some inspiration from other inventors more skilled than me." Again that air of smugness crept back into the lilt of his voice. "But yes, I made that one. You'll never find a replica."

She could hardly believe that she shared the company of such an accomplished mind. "You should patent it," she suggested. "Before someone else comes along and makes it and takes the fame."

Erik scoffed. "I need no fame," he muttered. "There are a few factors that interfere with that possibility."

Christine picked up on his tension and skated away from the topic quickly. "I assume that's you playing the piano?"

He nodded. "I stole to the baby grand that used to be in the dining hall one night once everyone was asleep. I believe there's a rumor of the opera ghost playing piano late at night…" He looked down to her with a raised eyebrow, mocking suspicion. She couldn't help but laugh.

The singer sighed, allowing herself to gaze freely up at him. "To think I have the privilege of being taught by the smartest person I know…You have a beautiful mind, Erik."

He cursed the heat across his face, the fine dust of color he knew was there. "I'm flattered. But it is you that has done most of the teaching here."

Once more the music lulled and slowed to a quiet, low distortion. Erik grumbled and freed her to wind the box again. When he turned back to face her, she clasped her hands behind her back and leaned on her heels in that damnedly coquettish way she did so often. "I'm bored of the waltz," she confessed.

Erik started, looking from her to the box. "Would you prefer to sit and listen then?"

She shook her head. "I want you to show me the dance you mentioned, from the fair."

He felt his heart drop and his face redden once again. Damn this vixen!

"It's not a polite dance."

"I don't care." She took two steps forward, her silken skirts waving with the tilt of her hips. "I grew up a scavenging vagabond in the company of homeless musicians," she reminded him. "I'm hardly as naive as you expect me to be."

One of his hands planted firmly to his hip and he studied her with suspicion. "I will not apologize if you're overwhelmed," he warned her. "You asked for this."

Christine nodded eagerly. "Yes I did." She held her hands out for him to take and he easily snuck beneath them to wrap an arm loosely around her waist. The petite girl gasped and her eyes widened, but she kept her mouth shut otherwise. His other hand took one of her arms and guided it to his own waist; she made assumptions and matched the form with her other hand. Any room left for decency had disappeared, the two were mere inches from each other. She never noticed how much taller he was than her…

Erik led the new dance with a foot that stepped its way between her own. She felt the edge of his knee brush past her thigh; the skin seemed to burn even through countless layers of fabric. She risked a shy glance up to her dance partner to find that he wore the most devious grin she had ever seen on him. He pushed forward one step, forcing Christine one step back. "Now mirror me," he instructed, voice low and dulcet.

She faltered as she pushed her own foot between his, felt that hidden friction once more that sent a thrill racing down her spine. "What kind of a fair was this?" She asked, trying to lighten up.

"One filled with gypsies."

Christine couldn't catch the open, broad laugh that fell out from her. Erik fed off of her glee and quickened their pace just enough that Christine was once again overwhelmed with a scandalous sense. Seeing his muse so excited and open to his will thrilled him.

A few more steps passed before Christine felt confident enough to relax. "You speak so lowly of the fair, but this is so fun," she said.

"It wasn't all bad," he said. "We managed to make the best hand with the cards we were dealt. Nightly suppers and dances helped."

"Nightly?" Christine couldn't help her shock.

"And this is the tame dance," he mentioned. "Let's just say there were some characters at that fair."

Some time passed before the music began to reach a climax; Erik had been silently counting off measures in his mind, craving that swell. Finally when the piano reached its crest his hands moved, one falling to her hip and one rising between her shoulder blades, and he surged forward till they met. Christine was sure the air rushed from her lungs at the sudden closeness. She gripped tightly to the fabric of his too-thin robe. She could feel each outline of him against the shell of her bodice. Felt the electricity that sparked from his fingertips on her hip. The pair sighed, movements slowing to a drag.

Erik felt the tension in her shoulders, the rigidity down the column of her back. "Relax, Christine," he murmured into her hair. "I will never hurt you."

Christine nodded, letting go of the strain in her limbs. She practically melted into him, mind slipping away from the dance, the music, the lair. Everything. Everything except for him.

"I can't thank you enough," she sighed into his chest. They held a slow, uneven sway. Rhythm and form had stopped being important.

"What for, my angel?" His voice was low and dulcet, she felt it hum against his sternum.

"Everything," she answered. "I've been through so much these past few months. I thought you'd be the only person who could understand. And when I thought you were dead…" She squeezed her eyes shut against the emotion that welled there, untapped. "I felt so alone. Who could ever possibly understand?"

Who could understand?

Erik's lips pursed, eyes drifted to look to the crown of curls that tucked further into him. What did she mean?

What was it for?

He pressed his lips to the crown of her head as his hand drifted up the path of her hair. His fingers brushed along the gentle curve of her face, finding the clay that sat perfectly in place. He needed to know. He couldn't bear this secrecy, when he had no idea what might lurk mere inches from him. It was for her safety, he assured her. His fingers curled into the mask's corner, nails scraped against the edge.

"I'm sorry."

A small tug was all it took to rip the mask from her face. He pushed them apart and she looked up to him cluelessly for a hair of a moment, before she screamed.

He caught only a glimpse. Angry red welts, burn stricken twists of skin across her face. Erik's eyes widened in pure horror as she recoiled, hair falling into her face with a quick thrash.

She stumbled back, hands flying to her face as they trembled violently. Labored breaths of shock echoed through the silent air; sometime in the past flurry of movement the box had unwound and died.

The clay thing dropped from Erik's hand and he gambled a step towards her. His hands, shaking, raised to try to reach out to her. She batted them away. Turned until all he saw was a wild frenzy of dark locks and a seething glare from the side of her eye. His arms fell to his side, his throat closed.

"Are you satisfied?" she accused. The hand not shielding her face balled at her side till the knuckles turned white. "Were you not content with the peace we have found?!"

"Christine," he breathed. He shook his head, trying to find words. He forgot how to speak. "I - I needed to know-"

"Know what?" She bellowed. Her hair swung as she faced him again, revealing a slip of warped scarlet skin below her eyes. "Know whether or not your perfect little angel was still who you recall? To see if your prodigy still retained her beauty?" Erik tried taking a step closer and she cried out, pulling further away. "No!" She held a hand out to keep him back. "Don't touch me."

Christine backed further away, hitting the wall with a hollow thud. His heart crumbled at the sound of her quiet, shuddering sobs as they broke the air. "Christine, please-"

She fled from the study, steps broken and hysteric. The door to her room slammed and the deadbolt clicked. The hollow sound was a death knell in his ears.

He was still shocked into stillness, staring off blankly at the doorway Christine fled through. He stepped back till he was able to fall into the chair by his music box. He slid his own mask back so he could pinch the bridge of his nose, rub his eyes. But no matter what he tried, the sight of her face still remained branded behind his eyelids. Burns, that much he could plainly tell. They ripped across her face, those perfect rosy cheeks, her bright, young eyes… he shuddered and dropped his mask once more. He couldn't recall a guilt so strong in his life.

.

.

Christine fell to the floor on the far side of her bed and must have decided that was a good enough spot to remain for the next two hours. She cried till she went numb, the mottled skin of her cheeks itching and her eyes burning a fierce sort of way. She was reduced to sniffles and weak whimpers by the time she reached blindly for her mask in the dark, only to remember he still had it. Her others were soaking in a warm basin on the hearth, damn!

She slammed her fists down by her sides, threw her head back and cursed "Damn it all!" She hadn't felt so frustrated in years. She sank into the side of the bed and closed her eyes, accepting that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to spend the rest of her life in that spot.

The strand of golden light across the wall was the first sign she picked up. The next was the deafening creak of rusted hinges. The door was gently pushed open, his silhouette climbed up the wall. In his right hand was a little thing with two eye holes. She bowed her head and turned away, not even bothering to catch the new tears that fell at the intrusion. Not who she wanted to see at that moment.

Erik drew in a deep breath, took the first steps into doom. He placed the mask on the edge of her bed, sank down to the floor around the corner from her. The pair sat in complete silence for what felt like hours, days. The only sound was his occasional sigh, the hitch in her breaths. He turned his head, staring off at the wall.

Christine wiped at her eyes, ignored the protest from angry scar tissue. "Is this how it felt," she muttered, working past the lump in her throat. "Each time I unmasked you?"

Erik's breath caught, his fists clenching. Hurt, terror, betrayal, heartbreak… these were just the few words that flashed across his mind at first mention. But there was so much more, such a hidden malice behind the act. And he had done it right back to her. How could he be so cruel with a lifetime of the same unfair treatment under his belt?

He didn't trust any words he might find at that moment. Instead, he rocked forward onto his knees, rolled his robe sleeves to the elbow. He crawled around the corner of the bed as if approaching a wounded animal, each movement calculated and torturously slow. She glared up at him through a curtain of curls that she pushed into her face. The sliver of light that snuck its way across her face fell over uneven warps and pinches.

Erik held out his arms, fists balled. Her eyes fell to them, taking in the new expanse of skin she was allowed to see. She didn't understand what she was looking for until she saw the dulled pink welts that ran across his wrists. His arms, much to Christines dismay, was littered with small scars, a whip scratch here, a knife slash there. But those two identical scars told a different tale entirely. Waxy skin stressed over traumatized tissue, broke apart the bold black lines that were etched into his left forearm.

"These are from the fair," Erik said. He cleared his throat, pushed away the shadows that threatened to creep into his mind. "One of the ringmasters, he heard me playing the piano past showtime. He abhorred music. He pulled me to the supper hall in front of the rest of the cast, forced me to sit. He took a rod, stuck it in the fire, pressed it to each of my wrists till the skin boiled."

Christine's eyes widened and her mouth fell open; her eyes flicked up to Erik's, but he was staring still at his own wrists. "He did so in hopes that I would not be able to play another instrument again," He explained. A tiny, spiteful smirk. "Load of good that did."

Her eyes fell back down to his wrists, rendered completely speechless. She jumped when his bare arm moved, exposing the back of his forearm. Working across the delicate muscle and flesh was an angry splay of bone-white skin, pinched and bent in a frenzy of damage. "This is from a fire in Persia," he explained. "A drunk knocked over a lantern and the shed set into flames. I escaped, but not without the fire bursting in front of my face. I caught it just in time."

Before Christine could even try to ask a single question he moved once more. She wondered if this was as difficult for him to do as it was for her to watch. With only a moment's hesitation, he pulled back the collar of his robe. Bare, porcelain skin was revealed, hatched with tiny marks that etched into the dip of his collarbone. He pulled the robe back further to reveal his shoulder. Fresh, dark scars the same color as hers clawed their way across the skin from around his back. She had seen these before. These…

"These," he murmured, "Are from the fire, five months ago."

A lone tear fell from her eye as the world slowed. Once more, it was just them in that dark room; all else ceased to matter. She lifted a hand and let the tips of her fingers trace along the raised and distorted skin on his chest. His breath hitched at the touch. He prayed she didn't notice as her hand dropped back to her side.

Before he could second guess himself he pulled the mask from his face, letting the harsh yellow light fall into its uneven caverns and snags. To his relief, no emotion aside from sadness crossed what he could see of her eyes. "This I was born with. Rumor is that my mother bought a poison from a gypsy to terminate the pregnancy, but it did little other than cause this." His voice grew thick despite his best attempt to keep it at bay; so much resentment clouded his thoughts whenever he remembered the ghost of a face he was left with.

"Christine," he breathed. He met her eyes as confidently as he could without his mask. "Please. I need to know that what I saw was true."

Christine's head lowered as she held back a sob. Her eyes screwed tightly shut, she shook her head. "I can't," she choked. It was true; she felt like she could barely move.

"I can," he offered softly. "But only if you'll allow me."

She could say nothing, could barely even think with the sound of her thoughts crashing through her head at a mile a minute. She lifted her head to level with his, didn't dare open her eyes. It was a torturous moment before she felt his cold fingers ghost along her forehead. She stifled the cry that begged to be freed, kept dangerously still.

Erik smoothed her hair up and away from her face. His face drained of all color, his mouth ran dry. His angel's face… it was even more destroyed than he thought he had seen. Her eyes were hooded by bloated eyelids that pulled oddly at the corners. Large welts dug through her temple and clawed their way across every inch of her forehead, thick and tight against her skull, like wax spilled onto a table. Her nose was misshapen, flattened by panicked tissue that didn't heal properly. Her cheeks, once so full of rosy color, were singed a permanent pale with the folding texture of a crumpled piece of paper.

He felt a wave of nausea crash into him and he had to avert his gaze, close his eyes against it. His hands turned clammy, his neck stuck with a sudden cold sweat. But it wasn't a reaction to the sight of her. It dawned on him that he would never again see the sweet, soft face of the woman he loved. And the pain she must have been through, to suffer from such horrible consequences… the thought of her misfortune brought that nausea rushing back.

She tried to pull from his grasp, turn away into the shadows, but he forced her back to him. Forced himself to face her. "Christine," he shuddered. "It's not… I'm not-" He huffed, shook his head. "I'm fine. I grieve the things you must have endured." At the glimpse of relief in her eyes, he was able to relax just enough. But she brimmed over, lips quivering and eyes shutting tight as tears once more traced their way through the twists of her cheeks.

For six months Christine had avoided the sight of her face, of what little was left of it. She could only look at her lips, the color in her eyes… the rest was no longer her. It was a hideous stranger that frightened her. She hadn't thought of how horrible it was, she couldn't bare it. It was easier to pretend and push it aside. But knowing that Erik now knew her secret, the last person in her life who she might pretend to, brought it all rushing back with a vengeance. The endless nights of agony as she laid in bed wide awake. The poking and prodding from doctors, the overwhelming pity from Raoul. The fire that burned on behind her eyes weeks after she was rescued. It had been hell. Hell. A hell that she felt she had to face all alone, trapped in her mind. She sobbed, covering her face from Erik's view. It was too much, she would fall apart if she saw his mournful eyes for another second.

"My angel." He brushed a hand lovingly across her hair, tilted her head back up to him and eased her hands away. She kept her eyes closed, shaking with sobs. Each of his hands came to cup either side of her face, running a thumb across her cheeks to catch her tears as they fell. "My sweet angel, what - what happened?" He could barely speak, barely breathe.

"The Populaire," she managed between hitching breaths. "I worried that you were still there. I ran inside and… and…" she broke off with a heart-wrenching whimper, rubbing uselessly at her eyes.

While he held her face, an overwhelming black doom crept into his mind. Any semblance of decency, of self-respect, crumbled at his knees. He tried his hardest to fight against his own tears but it was useless. His head dropped, shameful as he cried silently. "Oh, Christine…" He shook his head, hands falling to her shoulders. "It's my fault." Her face was ruined because he had manipulated her to the point that she willingly dove into fire for him. He ruined her life once more without even doing anything. How could he live with this?

Christine's eyes opened at his helpless whisper and she shook her head. "No," she said. "No, it is not your fault, Erik. I did this to myself."

"But why?" He gripped her shoulders, searching wildly in her eyes for any answer. "Why would you do that for me?"

"Because I care about you," she said. She almost laughed at herself, at the absurdity. She must have been out of her mind back then. Perhaps she still was. "I couldn't bare the idea of losing you again."

Erik caved and pulled her into his arms. She clutched desperately to the velvet along his back, burying her wreck of a face into the bare skin of his shoulder. It wasn't long before Erik pulled back, placed a long kiss to the grooves of her forehead. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "My poor Christine."

"I should have told you," she whispered. "This never would have happened."

Erik sat back, shook his head. "No. You never need to tell me what you do not wish for me to know. You owe me nothing." He reached onto the bed for her mask, offering it to her meekly. "I only hope that you can forgive me." His eyes searched hers for any hope, longing and shame pouring from him. For everything, he begged to say.

Christine took the mask from him, turning the thing over in her hands before tying it back in place. When she looked up he had placed his own back over his malformed side; its porcelain carvings almost appeared illuminated in the weak light. His hand raised to her face, smoothing her downy hair back. The pad of his thumb traced across the edge of the mask and his eyes darkened as he studied its flawless surface. "You should never have to experience this," he choked. He gestured weakly at his own face, a deep frown etching its way into his deformed lips. "A lifetime of limitations, of hiding."

Christine refused to begin crying again; she had wasted too much energy already when nothing could be changed. Instead she let her hand drift up the expanse of his arm, to around his neck to toy with the dark of hair of his wig. "At least I'm not alone," she said. She pulled herself up to his height and ducked into his embrace.

The air in Erik's lungs caught and he froze. He was hardly able to believe that she was so forgiving. Through the thickness of the wig he could feel her smooth her hand across the curve of his head. "It's alright," she assured him. "I forgive you."

He was unsure what she meant exactly; he doubted he was so easily forgiven for the sins of his past. But he took it as invitation enough and brought his arms around her. He would never tire of that sensation, of having her slight form pressed to his own, hands spanning with feather-light touches across her back. He held her till he felt the air return to his lungs, till he felt some semblance of control and wholeness once more. False hope, empty promises, he knew. But it was enough. He would make it enough.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: yall im SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG. holy shit, 3 months. i'm a mess. from work to school i've barely had time to do anything, and i'm sorry this fic has been so dry. i hope you guys enjoy this chapter, shes a little spicy. i'm gonna try to be better about updates, i promise!

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 **Chapter 12**

 **Passion**

 **.**

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What was she doing? She had no clue. But she tapped her knuckles against his door anyway, heart fluttering in her chest. She was in only her nightgown, stockinged feet freezing against the stone floor. Her hair was undone, falling over and behind her shoulders in a thick, curly drape. She had replaced the mask.

She had been restless, tossing and turning with abandon in the dark of her room. She was missing something. She needed something after the turmoil of that day. She could only hope that he could help.

Erik cracked the door, clad in only his mask, a loose white shirt, a pair of loose pants for sleep. Heat crept to her cheeks, realizing the intrusion she was making. She was getting pretty good at those lately.

"Christine, are you alright?"

"I can't sleep," she said. It felt ridiculous; what the hell was he supposed to do about it? But the hall was so cold and dark, his room felt so inviting with that soft candlelight. "Can I please stay in here for the night?"

He blinked, hesitating for a moment. He glanced behind him before he opened the door to her. She knew this was dangerous territory, but she was prepared to venture into it. She crossed the doorway into his room, ready to accept whatever came of that night.

He shut the door behind her, eyes blazing with question and caution. He stood tall, back straight and rigid as he studied her. "I'll collect some things for the chaise," he said lowly.

Christine shook her head, took a steadying breath. "No need," she assured him. "I want you to stay in here with me."

His brow raised, fists clenching and relaxing by his sides. "I don't think that's wise," he warned softly.

"Be calm," she said. She reached for his hand, lifting it against his attempts to resist her. She ran her thumb across the ridges of his knuckles, traced the lines of strained tendons and cold, worn skin. "I can't thank you enough for all you've done for me," she said, still looking down at those strong, calloused fingers as they twitched, curved around her own. "I've been so lost, so incomplete. Being here with you, I know it's what I needed to become myself again."

"I hardly feel I've given you anything other than hardships," he admitted, barely audible.

"You've given me plenty of those," she chuckled. "But you've given me music, passion, and now support…" she sighed and looked up, gaze locked into his instantly. He searched her face desperately, those flecks of ice in his one eye glowing like pure moonlight. Her gaze flicked to his lips, full and dark and alluring in a way she hadn't felt since that first fateful night after Hannibal. What she would have given to feel them against hers, against her, that night… The thought was sinful enough to make her blush deeper.

She felt that pull return, like two ends of a cloth brought together by an invisible string. Growing and persisting until it was maddening. She leaned into her end, dropping his hand and placing hers against the hard landing of his chest. Her fingers twisted into the loose fabric as she lifted herself to the tips of her toes.

Her breath ghosted across his lips, hot and short, only for a moment. She gave in and slotted her lips against his.

It took a moment before he realized what was going on. He breathed in sharply through his nose, eyes flying shut on instinct. His hands floated in the air around her figure, trembling as he tried to calm down. But the second he felt her hands venture, he melted to her whims. One wrapped to cling to his shoulder blade, the other framing the bare side of his face. She broke the kiss, eyes lifting to his for just a moment that offered Erik clarity. Move.

When he felt the slight drag of her lips against his own, he dove in head on. She replied eagerly; a thrill raced through his entire body, igniting each of his senses.

She turned them, pushed him until the backs of his knees hit the edge of his bed. His legs buckled and he sat, she followed him with knees at either side of him. He held out a palm to stop her but was met with her thigh; he recoiled and looked at his lap where she straddled him. The pool of gossamer silk around them, the porcelain skin he was holding...it was all too much. He didn't dare lift his eyes; temptation would be too much.

Christine lifted his head so that she could look at him, make sure he was alright. Her fingers drifted along his jawline, sparking his skin to life with the scrape of her nails. Her lips were parted and slick, a personalized trap set just for him. He leapt into it head first, devouring her lips with his own. Their masks clinked and rubbed awkwardly, but neither could find room to care.

Christine emitted the smallest noise of approval, tugging the ends of the sparse hair on his scalp. He gasped and groaned. At a curious flick of her tongue, his eyes flew open, hands clenching the edges of her nightgown with a white-knuckled grip. It was obscene, inappropriate, sinful… it was delicious.

His fingers ghosted over her hips, waiting for some type of denial, but he was only met by a shy roll and heated friction. He had no clue what to think of all this; he was sure he would slip into sensory overload any moment. Whether she was conscious of what she was doing, of the monster she was tangled with, he did not know. He found he couldn't give a damn; the feeling of her pressed completely to him and her lips now exploring his jaw didn't give him a choice. His hands curved around her hips perfectly, as if they were pieces of a puzzle that finally found each other. Her skin burned through the fine fabric of her nightgown, warming his palms.

The moment Christine's lips grazed along his neck he crumbled all over again. His nails dug into her flesh and his head knocked back. Every inch of him sparked with her floral scent of her skin. The rhythm her body formed.

She began to fumble with the buttons at his collar, yearning for more skin, more contact, anything. She needed to feel him, to have him and feel something. She was done hiding from him, herself, from everything she had felt for him before things went wrong. The quiet gasps she could hear spurred her on. The way he clutched desperately at her hips, the skitter of his breath across her face. It was intoxicating, empowering.

Erik's hand wandered to the gentle slope of her backside, trembling with each inch of skin he was allowed to feel. Christine shifted and brought attention to a certain affliction - a forbidden part of him had begun to stir, brushed against her. He gasped in horror of himself and seized her by the arms, stilling her and holding her a breath away.

Christine looked over him, at his heaving chest, panicked and wide eyes. "What's wrong?" She asked. "Did…" she bit her lip, whispered, "did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you…?"

Erik shook his head, eyes sliding shut. "No, Christine. I'm to blame." He took a shuddering breath, tried to clear his thoughts of all the outrageous images that had begun to taunt him. He shook his head once, rapid. "This isn't right."

"I want this," she assured him, though her voice did waver. She had felt it, too, not quite aware of what it meant. She knew the basics, she believed, but had never confronted it before. She was simply acting on instincts in this dark room. Her fingers skirted across the slip of skin she exposed below his collarbone, tracing faded scars. "Don't you want this?"

She risked a glance up to him, fearing the truth she might find in them. A miserable realization dawned on her. She knew it not to be true, but still… "You don't want me." How could he, after what he had seen that day? After how brazenly she had jumped him just now?

Erik's eyes darkened and he shook his head slowly. "Christine, you know that is not true." His thumb found a stray curl, brushed it absently. "There is nothing more that I desire…" he sighed, forced himself to shut up. He couldn't subject her to this side of him, this neglected, animal instinct.

"Then show me," she urged him, cupping the bare side of his face tenderly. "Please, I need to know…"

"Know what?" He couldn't read that expression, so dark and vague.

Her eyes watered, but she refused to let him see again. She closed her eyes, leaned closer to him. "That I can still be loved."

Erik's heart sank as he pulled her in, consequences and closeness be-damned. She caved into his embrace, arms draping tiredly across his shoulders. He selfishly breathed in the intoxicating scent of her, murmuring softly, "You can be loved. You've taught me, anyone can be loved."

A single tear slipped free from her eyes, but it was not of pain. It was relief, overwhelming and freeing. She held tight to him, fearing ever letting go again. The Phantom character could never have shown such compassion and tender care for another creature. This was the man hidden beneath the mask, beyond the torture and manipulation and trauma. She grieved the time they lost, the lives that were taken before she was able to reach him.

"It's been a taxing day," he spoke gently, as if to lull her to compliance. "You need rest, as do I. I don't want to risk doing anything you might regret come tomorrow." He shifted their bodies to a point where he could carefully lay her across his bed. She refused to let go, clinging to him with a hopeless, strained cry.

"My angel," he coaxed. "Please."

"Stay with me," she begged. "I can't be alone. I can't bear it."

"Do you really think that's wise?" Erik felt as if he had no right to be near her, especially with the lingering desires in his mind. Heat rose to his face, ridiculous and humiliating at the thought of lying next to her in his current state.

All she could offer in reply was a pleading, longing look and a meek "please." She held steadfast to the fabric draped across the back of his neck.

With a heavy sigh, he relented. "Let me snuff the candles."

He left her side, turning his front half away from her view. She didn't need to know. He quickly blew out the flames that flickered on the candelabras, noticed with some level of satisfaction that she removed her mask and dropped it to the floor by the bed. He removed his own on his way back to the bed, placed it on the nightstand and eased himself down next to her.

He draped a spare blanket over her, kept himself at a distance. He was willing to sacrifice his own dignity and comfort for her, no matter the embarrassment. She needed him. What kind of a man would he be if he refused her? He hardly thought of himself as a man as it was.

Christine shimmied close, a hand trailing to his side to hold him near. She rested her head against his chest. She couldn't see in the pitch black room, but listened to his heart hammering wildly instead. He took a deep, shuddering breath; his chest shook with it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He glanced down at her, more equipped to see in the dark than her. "For what?" His voice had a dark, sleepy husk that barely broke the silence that surrounded them.

"For how I acted just now," she replied, sheepish. Looking back now that they were settled it felt completely ridiculous for her to even attempt to do… whatever she tried to do. She wasn't even entirely sure.

Erik tested wrapping an arm around her shoulders, sighed when she relaxed more into him. He offered a reassuring squeeze. "Worry not," he murmured. "I've done far worse out of lust. But you already know that."

"Was that what tonight was?" Her voice was tiny, tinged with shame. "Lust?" A sin. Horrible and unforgivable and damnable. Indeed, she had seen what lust was capable of through Erik's devious and twisted ways. The thought that she might be capable of such a blind action due to the same feeling terrified her.

Erik heard the unease in her voice, felt the grip on his side shrink away. He reconsidered and sighed. "Maybe not lust, more… passion. Gratitude, impulse…" he longed to say desire, but he knew it was impossible. He refused to even entertain the idea.

"Passion," she repeated. She had seen it before in opera scores; Erik was fond of writing "con passione" above the phrase lines for each of her lines in Don Juan. Her fear for that word had grown to resentment after the events of that play unfolded, after that last cursed night in his lair when he forced a veil to her head.

But she had seen it elsewhere, she supposed. In the way she ran into the fire for him, in the way she refused to let him disappear into the dark of Death's cloak. And Erik was capable of it, too, she realized, without the consequences being dire. He showed passion in the way he guided her around his home and displayed his love for music. He showed it each time he drew horsehairs across strings, each time his fingers pounded against fine ivory keys. In the way he freed her through his dark music.

Passion was a step between love and lust, she realized. The thought sent a chill down her spine, stopped her heart dead in her chest.

"Can you tell me about the circus?" She asked timidly. She decided she needed a distraction, immediately.

Erik's chest froze mid-rise, before he remembered to exhale. "What do you want to know?"

She tapped a finger against his ribcage. "You said there were good things about the circus. Tell me about them." She sighed, looking off into the darkness without aim. "I need some happiness tonight."

It took him a moment to think of a topic. He knew those memories of smiles and dances and friends were in his mind somewhere. Just… buried. By pain and torment and hate of the later years. He glanced at the arm that wrapped securely around her shoulders, settling. "Have I ever told you about my tattoos?"

"No." Her voice lifted just so, assuring him that he had her interest.

"I've noticed you staring at them plenty," he noted.

"I can't help it," she said. "I've never seen one before."

"These are from my time in the fair," he explained. He turned his wrist, just able to make out the contrast from white skin to twists of black ink in the dark. "There was a tattooed man, head to foot. He made his own machine, a rudimentary little thing. He would tattoo the other performers on slow days. Whenever we were bored, really. I offered to help him build a more efficient machine; he paid me in the way he knew best."

He remembered the sharp sting, the gratification that came from each jagged stab of the needle. The nerves along his forearm tingled lightly. Something akin to nostalgia and resolve cast a new, unfamiliar color behind his eyes: a pale violet, the color of dusk at the end of a tiring day. The feeling wasn't all bad.

"One of my friends from there, Fig, ended up with a horrible tattoo." He chuffed, catching a glimpse of it in the dark. "He wanted a naked lady wrapped in the British flag. He got a creature that closer resembled a pelican, all the way down his calf."

Christine didn't laugh; she couldn't muster up the energy. It was funny, though. It helped replace the dull pain from the day with a vague humor. "That's a curious name," she said quietly. "Fig."

"Most of us had unconventional names," he explained. "Fig, Fiddler, Roast, to name a few. Most had to do with things we enjoyed."

"Did fig have an inclination towards a certain fruit?"

A dry chuckle. "Yes, he did."

He sorted through new memories that returned to him, slowly, but steady as a stream loosened brick by brick. Speaking of streams… "We seldom had access to a bath, so we would have to find a source of water, boil it, and then bathe with only a bucket each. It was fairly inconvenient, so instead we would find streams in the warm seasons and bathe there." He stifled a chuckle. "Some of them would strip down to the skin and run through the campgrounds and over the edge of a nearby cliff. They were certainly mad."

Christine almost giggled, but fatigue had begun to creep up on her and pulled her eyes shut. She instead managed a weak, relaxed smile that Erik could feel against his chest in the dark. The tension in his shoulders loosened, his fear of holding or hurting her subsiding just enough for him to enjoy the moment. This was almost more intimate, he thought, than when she kissed him. It was trust; no matter how horrendously he screwed up earlier that day, she had forgiven him.

Erik continued weaving soft, gentle tales of his times in the fair, of dark-lit acts and feasts and seeing the countryside from behind the drapes of caravans. He hoped it was enough, hoped it didn't frighten her. Every once in a while he would feel that shadow of a smile again and his heart would race. Her fingers against his side relaxed and her breathing began to level out.

He still could not believe that she was not afraid to hold him, or to fall asleep next to him. Of all the places she could have gone… the Giry's, a hotel, distant family she had mentioned, and she still chose him.

His recollection of the fair continued long after she fell asleep. Old memories, burnt at the edges and uneven in his mind made him smile to himself, cringe and sigh. There were so many wonderful things he had forgotten… how had he forgotten? There were friends, he realized. Tragedies and downfall, but there were gold-edged flashbulbs in his thoughts that were slowly being uncovered after years of decay and neglect.

His eyes began to draw shut, lulling him closer to sleep. I shouldn't… so close to Christine, his student, his muse and guest, he fought every urge to leap from the bed. He knew she would stir the moment he moved. But he felt he hadn't earned the right to be so close to her. Even if she wanted it, he could not accept it. Beasts were not meant to lay beside angels.

Still, he felt as though he were woven into those sheets, tangled stiffly in them with Christine fast asleep across his chest. The minute kiss of her breath across his skin, the faint floral that surrounded her. He closed his eyes, settled on apologizing later for the intrusion. For now he would allow himself the tiniest of indulgences.

He shifted just enough to drape his other arm across her still form, buried his head in the soft curls that fanned out about both of them. He breathed deep, committed each detail of that moment to memory as he let sleep claim him.


End file.
